


Keep Me Secret

by Selion



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Detectives detecting things, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Hand Jobs, Human Hancock, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Minor Character Death, Plot With Porn, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Sexual Tension, and nick is just trying to be respectable dangit, hancock is a big slut, human nick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 92,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selion/pseuds/Selion
Summary: “Valentine,” he says, mind racing as he tries to place this young man and the mental Rolodex ultimately comes up blank. “Nick Valentine. I own the detective agency behind the marketplace.” He pauses and offers an apologetic quirk of his brows as well as his hand. “Not a good first impression for someone in my line of work, I know, but I haven’t the foggiest who you are either.”The kid smiles back at him, the expression seeming more common on his face than not, and slots his hand in against Nick’s. It’s warm and firm in his own and he waits for Nick to let go first after the shake. “John. McDonough, if we’re gettin’ all formal here.”





	1. The Paths Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was a fun idea. From the in-game references that they knew each other pre-game, and of course that Hancock used to live in Diamond City with his family where Nick’s been working for a long time, the little mention of before-he-was-a-ghoul Hancock on Irma’s terminal in Goodneighbor… eh it all kinda came together into this. Gonna borrow most things from game canon, but not all.
> 
> This story begins about seven years prior to Fallout 4. Nick is a human (AU alert) and Hancock still has a couple years before he goes ghoul.

_November 20, 2280 5:30 PM_

 

If you want a good view of not only Diamond City, but also the rest of the Fens as the day’s closing down, leaning over the rails at the very top of the stands is undeniably the best spot for it. The hazy glow of neon signage and sodium arc lights to one side; the great, broken hulls of ancient buildings and flat sparkle of river on the other. It’s beautiful, in that way the world still can be; little scraps of new ambition pasted over yesterday. But when you’re too done in to hoof it up there, staring at a big, uninteresting green wall is the clear runner-up.

And here he sits, right in front of that grand disappointment on his final smoke break of the evening. Parked on one of the old benches by the Wall watching the the dark shapes of scavenger birds wheel across the sky one last time before they head home to sleep. Not too dissimilar from the residents of the city taking their last spin around the market stalls and old concrete paths before turning in. He’d spent the day hunting around the city himself, and getting nothing for it but endless shrugs and head shakes. All the sweet-talking in the world wasn’t worth doodly-squat if the info just wasn’t there. But tomorrow’s another day, and the case’ll still be there waiting, frustrating as it’s turning out to be.

His cigarette is almost burnt down to the filter; he can feel the warmth of the ember every time the wind pushes against it. As he pitches it onto the ground and crushes it out to make way for its successor a voice speaks up behind him. Kind of an odd combination of hoarse drawl and high, playful tenor.

“Hey, man, I am _really_ diggin’ the coat.”

Nick turns his head and sees a short, kinda messy lookin’ kid with a grin on his face and a tangled mane of wavy blond hair with a hand on the back of his bench. Well, _kid_ might be a stretch. He’s got a young, sort of innocent-looking face but the lean-muscled set of his body and the hard lines of his jaw and nose put him at mmm… early twenties, most likely. But first impressions are tough to kill, and compared to his own sage years he sure looks like a kid.

Nick smiles back, wary but sufficiently polite, and glances down at the coat in question. Same one he always wears. Long, tan stained darker with nicotine and age, a few more rips and patches in it than there used to be. It’s nothing special and he takes the strange compliment as it was probably meant: an opener that sounds less stale than the traditional ‘Hey, howyadoon, pal’.

“Does the job.” He nods at the empty spot on the bench next to him. There’s about six or seven more around, but that long-fingered hand is expectantly resting right here on this one. “Sit if you want. Wasn’t planning on being out here much longer so you’re welcome to take over.” That’s friendly enough if the kid’s lookin’ for talk, but also leaves himself an out if he turns out to be a pusher or a shill for one of the weekly caravans. He doesn’t look like it, has the distinct air of a local actually, especially with the noticeable lack of clothing layers and kit, but there’s nothing more annoying than getting an unwanted sales pitch when you’re trying to wind down. Besides maybe getting held up, but no one’s attempted that in a good long while. Maybe he’s due for it.

The grin brightens some more and he hops over the back of the bench instead of walking around. He stretches out and crosses his skinny legs at the ankle, all easy sprawl and elbows hanging over the back. “Weh-hell alright, if you’re offerin’.” His head rolls around to fix his eyes on Nick, hair shifting in the wind and sunset light turning his irises a strange pink color. “Pretty sure I’ve seen that hat and getup walkin’ around town before, but I don’t think we’ve met yet, have we...?”

“Valentine,” he says, mind racing as he tries to place this young man and the mental Rolodex ultimately comes up blank. “Nick Valentine. I own the detective agency behind the marketplace.” He pauses and offers an apologetic quirk of his brows as well as his hand. “Not a good first impression for someone in my line of work, I know, but I haven’t the foggiest who you are either.”

The kid smiles back at him, the expression seeming more common on his face than not, and slots his hand in against Nick’s. It’s warm and firm in his own and he waits for Nick to let go first after the shake. “John. McDonough, if we’re gettin’ all formal here.”

They talk as the sun works its way down and the sky drifts into navy blues and cool purples. Nick meant to be back inside a while ago, but this really isn’t half bad. He lights a fresh smoke and offers one to John who accepts eagerly, leaning in to light his on the same match. They talk about Nick working in Chicago and moving out east when the enclave and brotherhood presence got to be too overbearing, about finding Mayor Roberts’ daughter a few months back and getting a place here, about John and growing up in the more seedy area of the city with his pain in the ass brother and their barely-there parents, about how he’s got nearly nothin’ to do here but run around and get into trouble wherever he can find it.

Before he knows it it’s full dark, the stars are out, and they’ve burned through the rest of his pack. The kid’s arm is resting on the bench behind Nick’s back and the rest of him is turned in and facing almost directly at Nick. He’s somewhat amused by the observation, wondering if John always got so obviously cozy with everyone he’d just met. But he can’t fault him for it; he knows he’s got the same comfortable smile on his face and his own tongue’s been fairly loose with the conversation. And it's nice. To just talk and listen and laugh and not have to worry about trying to coax the dirt out of the guy you’re talkin’ to or wonder how much it’s gonna cost you in the end.

“Gettin’ late,” Nick has to say eventually. He doesn’t particularly _want_ to head home but it is, in fact, late. There’s sleep to be had if he doesn’t want to be miserable in the morning and still some work to do before he calls it a day. Besides that, the talk’s naturally died out and there’s a fair amount of familiar wet chill in the air from the cold ocean breeze. The kid’s only wearing a pair of worn-through jeans and a shortsleeve and he can see the light shivers periodically rippling over him.

“Ooh, yeah, guess it is.” John’s eyes tilt up to the darkened sky, but he doesn’t remove his hand and doesn’t move to stand up. He just keeps looking at him with that even look on his face. “Past my bedtime. You headin’ out then?”

He really should. “Think I am, I’ve got a few things to take care of and a fella to talk to in the morning.”

“Lucky him,” John says with a grin and a very over-the-top wink that gets a raised eyebrpow and bemused head shake out of Nick. “You aren’t too bad, man. Wouldn’t mind doin’ this again sometime if you’re free. I’ll get you back for the cigs, alright?”

Nick feels a hand brush over his back to squeeze his shoulder, and then John’s up and drifting off toward the radio tower. He lifts his hand in a wave without looking back and then he fades into the shadows of the city.

Yeah. He wouldn’t mind too much either.


	2. So a Detective and a Hoodlum Walk Into a Bar

_ November 26, 2280 11:00 PM _

 

“Hey-hey! Detective Valentine!”

Nick turns toward the call to see John elbowing his way through the tight pack of human and ghoul and all in-betweens filling the dimly-lit space of the Dugout Inn. His answering smile to the friendly tone quickly falls into surprise as John breaks through the crowd to slap his arm in greeting.

“Jesus _Christ,_ kid. Who the hell did you tick off?”

His face is an honest-to-god mess. He’s sporting a serious shiner, the mottled blackish-purple stretching all the way from eye socket to cheekbone and a smaller curl of it seeping over his eyebrow; the sclera of that same eye is now a garish, staring red where the underlying blood vessels have burst; and there’s a wide, painful-looking gash in the middle of his lower lip. Though even with how rough his face looks, he still manages to seem completely above it and looks like just as much of a heartbreaker as ever. He sticks his tongue out and rolls it against the line of old blood and raw skin, grinning a little sheepishly.

“You’re the sixth person tonight to ask me that. Oop, over here.” He looks up and tugs Nick out of the way of what looks (and smells) like an approaching gaggle of sweat-and-mud-soaked bounty hunters. John parks them next to one of the big concrete support pillars and goes on, Nick leaning in close to hear him over the raucous din of the bar’s patrons and the blare of the radio on the far wall.

“Short version is some fuckass out-of-towner was bein’ a jerk to that cutie with the overpriced electronics stall yesterday morning. It went a little past bein’ funny, then it went _a lot_ past and I asked him to kindly cut it the fuck out, and he took that to mean ‘I am challenging your honor as a man’ and then he punched me in the face.”

Nick just stares at him.

“...And then _I_ punched _him_ in the face, and it eh… got pretty ugly after that,” he finishes. He smiles again and this time it stretches too wide, edging into feral territory. It looks slightly alarming and he chokes it off by downing the rest of whatever’s in the short glass he’s holding. Makes Nick wonder if the other party managed to walk away with his eyesight still intact. Or even walk away at all.

“Tough break. Y’alright, though? That looks like it really smarts,” he asks after another long moment of looking John over. Especially the split lip. He’d been punched and slapped plenty of times and that aching, hot throb of an injured yap was never any fun. The bloody eye _looks_ bad, but those usually solve themselves neatly enough after a few days.

John just handwaves the concern and shakes his head. “Nah, no weapons involved, wasn’t a big deal; I’m fine. Besides, I _trashed_ the other guy. Guess I’m lucky I’m not sitting in one of the detention cells right now. Buuut...” he says, tipping his empty at Nick, “...you can always buy a guy another drink if you’re feelin’ real torn up about it, handsome.” Nick snorts, thinking it’s only missing a good eyelash flutter to be a proper, hamfisted pass and John tips a thumb back behind him and turns the grin back on. “Got a table saved right here if you wanna get me nice and impaired. I’m not gonna say no.”

Funny. “Yeah, why not. I’ll buy an injured man a drink or two,” Nick says. Between boozing with the kid or sitting on his own listening to the drunks argue and Vadim spouting off about his perpetually broken stills, this sounds like a far better way of spending his evening. He’s had too many quiet (lonely, he might say if pressed) nights lately; that’s half the reason he’s even in this dive at all. “What’re ya poisoning yourself with tonight?”

Turns out it’s the house moonshine (good lord) and Nick threads his way up to the front to order one and his own weekly dose of the expensive scotch. Thankfully he catches Vadim’s eye and leans over the sticky bar top as he’s being jostled and prodded by the crowd behind him. Sometimes you get the urge to be around other people, and then you get there, crushed right in the middle of the mad dance and start wondering what on god’s green you were thinking. This is nearly one of those times, saved by the comforting fact that no one’s yet spilled their drink down his back or tried to pick his pocket.

“Heya, Vadim. Pretty busy tonight, huh?”

Vadim smiles and sets the glass he’s just wiped out on the counter, picking up another with a well-practiced hand. “Busy bar is happy bar, gumshoe. What would you like?”

Nick relays the drink order and Vadim automatically reaches around for the bottles and glasses. He tilts his chin to the back of the room with a questioning look as he pours. “You taking up with the little McDonough brother, eh?”

“Taking up wi—? No.” Nick’s completely bewildered for a moment. What the hell had made him think that? “No, not at all.”

“No?” He sets down both drinks and accepts the caps for them, vanishing them into the till under the bar top. The look on his wide face is both skeptical and knowing, like they’re both in on some shared joke, and Nick’s not sure he likes the continued insinuation. Vadim barks out a short laugh. “In that case, you just be careful with that one, my friend.” And then he’s sweeping off to another customer, turning away to shout into the back, ‘Yefim! Need more glasses out here!’ before Nick can ask what _that’s_ supposed to mean.

Well, it’s obvious what he meant, but… what? Why?

Given, he’s only got the basic brushstrokes on John, and he _is_ very suggestive and jokes around frequently... but some people flirt as easy as breathing, it’s just how they operate. It’s almost absurd to think the kid would think about him that way; goddamn ridiculous. That’s just _John._ He shoves the thought aside and heads back to wherever the guy in question’s parked himself.

He finds him easily enough; it’s hard to miss the unruly mop of blond and the odd way John has of seeming to unfurl and spread out, filling the area he’s inhabiting and making himself look more noticeable or imposing than his slim figure warrants. Nick settles into the free chair and solemnly clinks his glass against John’s when he motions for it. They make a dual toast to swift recoveries and little bitches getting their shit kicked in.

They drink, drink a lot more, and true to his earlier word, John shares out what he’s got from a thoroughly crumpled pack of cigarettes as they shoot the breeze and embark on the journey of getting good and sloshed. Nick takes a quick sip of the kid’s ‘shine when he offers and _yes,_ it’s still as foul as he remembers it. Tastes like instant heartburn in a glass. John snickers at the face he makes.

When it comes up, John wants to hear more about the case Nick’s been on, and even though working’s the last thing he meant to think about here, John looks so damn interested it’s impossible to say no. So he just launches into it, trying to weave the whole thing into more of a cohesive narrative and less of what it is right now: a series of dry facts and speculation and data he has charted up in one of his dog-eared notebooks.

John’s an attentive listener; asks questions and even fills in the snippets of info that he can, mostly to do with personality quirks or odd habits of the people around town that are involved in some way. The kid’s a lot sharper than he gave him credit for. Though to be fair, as they continue drinking his additions and interjections start sounding more and more nonsensical.

He talks and talks. John follows along (wasn’t he sitting on the other side of the table before?) and taps his ash into one of the many empty glasses now littering the round tabletop. It’s been an awful long time since he let himself get tipsy, let alone actually drunk with someone, and it’s, well, freeing. Enjoyable. John’s got an arm around the back of his chair again and occasionally his thumb rubs against Nick’s shoulder. Maybe it’s an accident, but neither of them move out of the other’s way and it’s not… not bad. Kinda relaxing.

And he’s… hm.

Actually a lot closer than he’d thought.

Nick looks, really stops and _looks_ for the first time in quite a while as time’s been slipping by so easily, and sees how little space there actually is between the two of them. His shoulder’s nearly socked up against John’s chest and arm, their knees have been touching so long he doesn’t even remember when that started, and at eye-level there’s his ear a scant few inches away as he hunches in close to hear what Nick’s saying. Right there with the thick metal rings looped through it, curls of hair brushing the top and falling down the side of his face, lines of his throat leading down to the slender ridges of his collar bones visible through the neck of his shirt. John’s face turns as he notices the lengthening lull in the conversation; doesn’t meet Nick’s eyes but he’s definitely watching.

Suddenly, he’s feeling too warm.

Followed quickly by disjointed alarm as he sees John’s free hand trail over their joined knees and settle on his, fingertips drawing lightly over his slacks. He thinks back to Vadim’s I-know-something-you-don’t-know look and is now ready to admit that maybe it had some merit to it. This is… he’s never… a man’s never touched him like this and he’s not sure if he’s reading too far into it or even how to react to it.

Smoothly, seems to be the consensus.

“What’re you doing?” Nick asks. His drunk self doesn’t at all have the way with words that his sober self does and he’s appalled at how idiotic and querulous he sounds. It’s still blaringly loud all around them and he has to almost shout to make himself heard.

John turns to fully face him with a smile. Somehow, the dark bruise spread over his skin and that demoniac eye enhance his looks rather than dampen them.

“Testing the waters. What are you doing?”

Testing the…? Oh.

_Oh._

The excuses he’s been making to himself about John’s actions all seem about as solid as soggy broadsheet in light of this. He’d known. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it, maybe. Foisting his own fears and questions onto John’s motives, hoping they wouldn’t actually add up to anything that needed to be confronted.

But there it is. Direct confirmation.

John’s palm slides up and he grips just a hair tighter. Nick can’t figure out why it’s even happening, but the weight of the fingers on him feels far too good; his scalp prickles and a hot, embarrassing pulse of want and curiosity shoots through his gut. He’s burning all over and John’s still right there; still looking at him. Pupils wide and dark, lips parted, face loose and open from all the alcohol. He’s close enough that Nick can smell him, spicy soap and old smoke and the leather of his jacket. It’s so wrong, but he wants to bury his face in against his neck and that mass of hair and breathe him in.

He shifts closer; his own hand reaching for John’s and _just_ gliding over the back of his wrist.

That bare graze of skin is like touching a live wire.

Like completing a circuit so the connected warning siren can shriek to life.

Realization slams into him and he panics.

“I’m n— sorry.” He jerks his hand back and slips out from under John’s light grasp and confused eyes, chair legs squalling against the floor. “I can’t…”

And he’s up, pushing away from the table and stumbling off into the rough embrace of the crowd. His head’s swimming from the alcohol and the gallon of adrenaline that’s just been dumped into his bloodstream along with it. People turn and give him funny looks that turn into sympathy or eye rolls or rude gestures as they see him lurch away with as much grace as a behemoth in a marsh. Up through the blue-lit entrance hall, making sure not to knock himself silly on any of the jutting pipes. He curses under his breath as he reaches the door and it won't goddamn open.

It opens the other way.

The air that greets him is such a sweet relief after that and he sucks in a deep, tearing breath. Tastes the frosty chill in it and walks away from the roar of people behind him, feeling a bit less panicked but also a little ashamed at… _Damnit._ At _fleeing;_ that’s what he’d done. Nothing but a limp apology and then sayonara. He only has a few seconds to berate himself for it before the door behind him opens and closes again and there’s John’s voice. Softer now, in this cottony silence.

“Nick.”

He doesn’t answer. But he does stop where he is, hand resting on the damp back of the outdoor seats so he doesn’t sway and show off how off-balance and off-kilter he is.

“You’re runnin’ away from me, man.”

That he is. There’s no denying that. For a few different reasons, too.

...They’re not coming to him at the moment, but they’re definitely there. He’s not… he can’t. Not with him. Not like this. God’s sake, if he wasn’t so drunk he’d probably be able to say exactly what the problem was, but for now all he can do is wait and see what John followed him out here for. Stand here and let his burning face battle against the cold of the night air. Try to get the breathing back under control.

“Turn around, okay? I ain’t that scary lookin’,” John says. There's a clear edge of frustration in his voice alongside the light slurring. Then he pauses a moment and when he continues it’s gentler, like he’s trying to calm a skittish dog. In this moment, Nick kinda feels like one. “C’mon. Not gonna touch ya; I’m all the way over here.”

He turns around. True enough, John’s standing over by the big concrete steps, clutching his scuffed jacket closer around him and backlit by the misty air and big fluorescent light over the door. He looks almost ethereal like that, a pale corona outlining his slim figure, arms crossed and head tilted as if he’s listening for something.

Nick doesn’t get it. Any of it.

“What?” he asks, vaguely gesturing back towards the bar. Eloquent as all hell, but John still seems to understand what he means and shrugs at him.

“I dunno whose dreamy, hazel eyes _you’ve_ been gazing into all night but I was checkin’ yours out and liked what I saw, that’s all.”

Nick scoffs and can’t come up with a response other than a disbelieving _‘Really?’_ He’s still having a hell of a hard time accepting this for some reason. He’d been serious about it? This whole time? All of it? Shit.

The door opens again and a couple with their arms looped around each other's waists step out and start muddling around the patio. One of them is laughing and the other one looks like they’re struggling to keep the contents of their stomach down. John sidles out of their way and joins Nick where he’s still standing by the booth chair and tables, not quite crowding up to him but close enough that he can speak in a low, husky murmur that only the two of them can hear. The buffer of space is suddenly gone; the intimate bubble of privacy back in effect.

“What happened, huh? Thought you were into it,” he says, eyes tipping up to Nick’s. The gaze is sultry as any woman’s and, in this uneasy moment, honestly just as alluring. He leans heavily against the booth seat that’s holding Nick up, fingertips and dingy nails deliberately inches away from his hand and the dark gaze on that young face turns into a challenge. Fingers and eyes taunting him. “Was I _really_ reading this all wrong? You don’t want this?”

Nick frowns at him and parses out the unsaid accusations on his face, in his words: _‘I saw the way you were looking at me’_ and _‘I felt you nearly take my hand before you spooked yourself’_ and _‘Just what were you leaning in to do, huh?’._ Yeah, fair. But, no. No.

“John... you’re drunk.” _More in control than I am, that’s for sure,_ Nick thinks. _But maybe that’s all this is. Hopefully._

The kid snorts, looks like he’s trying to roll his eyes but they don’t do much more than dart to the side. “Not _that_ drunk,” he says, then continues on with a grin, tilting his head up into a defiant cant. “Is that a no? Tell me you don’t want to go back in there, rent one of the rooms, wrap those big hands around my neck, and fuck me ‘til I’m screaming. Come in my ass, make me beg for it first if you like that.” He looks thrilled at making Nick’s mind take those abrupt, falling steps into the scene he’d just painted. Sure he is. “Tell me you don’t and I’ll drop it.”

Hell. Nick’s eyes slide closed, wishing he could unhear the last fifteen seconds. Civil all night and then a blunt hammer strike like that… he must be great at getting a rise out of unsuspecting people. Doin’ a pretty good job of it right now. Shit.

“I don’t know what I want,” Nick says carefully, trying to keep himself under control and above the baiting. He’s already horribly flushed and doesn’t trust himself not to say anything stupid, so avoids it by just… avoiding it. It probably isn’t what he should say. He _should_ just give him a flat no and be done with it but… man, is he confused. _Jesus,_ he’s gotten less graphic come-ons from the girls over in Goodneighbor. He needs to get away from this before his conscience and his brain fail him even more and he wakes up on one of Yefim’s flat mattresses with an armful of regrets. Why is this so tempting? He slides a hand over his mouth, wiping his dry lips. “Just… please, I need some space, okay? I had too much, I can’t think like this.”

And he really can’t. He’s got disembodied snatches of music and tonight’s conversation flicking around in his mind; dull, thudding anxiety from this new turn of events; the lazy swing and drift of his vision; and some half-remembered advice from his first partner in the Chicago PD about drinking too much… something about never agreeing to anything when everything sounds like a good idea. Yep, swell. He’s done his duty with that. Here’s to you, Dawes.

After a very long, searching moment, John nods, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. Nick’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the motion.

“Alright,” John says. There’s still a watchful look there on his face, though now it’s mixed in with grudging acceptance and disappointment. Nick knows he hasn’t done anything wrong but still feels pretty terrible. He likes the kid, strangely gets along with him well enough and doesn’t _want_ to turn him away like this, but this has just gone leaping and screaming off the deep end and he’s not in any shape to try and pull it back. There’s another long pause of craggy silence and breaths fogging the air between them. “You’re right, sleep it off. I’ll see you around, okay?”

“I… yeah.” His shoulders slump down. It sounds too final, like a ‘goodbye forever’, but he can’t dredge up any finesse to fix it right now. Tries to soften it by putting a hand on John’s shoulder and that’s a heaping pile of mixed signals, but he’s gotta do _something._ Can’t just walk away and pretend he doesn’t see that angry hurt staring at him. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Immediately, he regrets it. John’s eyes snap up and he folds his hand over Nick’s and yanks it off him before Nick can take it back on his own. John jerks them a half step closer together, bringing their joined hands up in front of his face. His touch is cold, fingers soft and smooth, and the look on his face is one Nick can sincerely say he hasn’t seen before. Not quite lust, not quite outrage, but really close to both.

“I said _alright._ Don’t fuck around with me, man.”

He watches as John bends in and draws the tip of one of his own extended fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the pad and lips sliding up over the knuckle. His mouth never touches Nick, but the message there and the proximity is enough to make the skin of his lower back crawl.

“Not if you’re not gonna follow up on it.”

He releases him and Nick’s hand hangs where it is for a moment, slowly closing and then pulling back to grip defensively around his coat’s lapel.

“Yeah,” John says as he watches the retreat. In his eyes, Nick can easily read the words _that’s what I thought,_ but they go unspoken. And that’s it. John shoves his hands into his pockets and turns and stalks back into the churn of the Dugout.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Nick lets out the breath he’s been holding in a heavy white rush. It’s a loud sound in the empty courtyard, but he’s alone again; the couple from earlier long wandered off together and no new arrivals since stepping out. Shame burns and his blood beats hard under his skin as he pockets his own clenched hands and turns away from the door. He’d probably deserved that. Definitely.

Home is close, not even a three minute walk most times, but with his mind and his gut looping around at full tilt it’s a bit more of a production than usual. Despite it all, he manages a pretty even-keeled journey, only stumbling once. Puts a few fresh scratches on his door handle and falls into bed almost immediately when he gets inside, only pausing to toe out of his shoes, fling his hat onto the bedside table, and drag a big fistful of sheets and quilt up from where they’re tangled around the bedposts. The darkness that overtakes him is a welcome cessation to this near-total fiasco. Just one misstep after the other.

As he sinks under, he murkily hopes that he hadn’t seriously messed that up and hurt the kid. _Please._

By the time he wakes up to the usual shouts and chatter from the square, woozy and eyes over-sensitive and with a horrific taste in his mouth, most of the more terrifying moments of the previous night are dimmer, less important. Some even forgotten.

And by the time he’s thrown on a new change of clothes, run a wet comb through his hair, drank about two days worth of water, and started up the steady dig through his folders and notebooks, the last little nagging details are being snugly covered up with that comforting blanket called denial. And it’s back to business as usual.


	3. John Gives Nick a New Case and It's Bullshit

_November 28, 2280 2:00 PM_

 

A quiet couple of days later and his last case has been neatly tied up and paid for and he’s on to the next in the queue. This one’s going to require a bit of walking, which is going to be a right pain in the ass thanks to where he’s heading. And besides that, travel likely isn’t going to be possible for the next few days, maybe as long as a week depending on if the wind’s going to cooperate or not. There’s been an ominous, green-tinged bank of clouds roiling up from the southwest and walking around unprotected would be ill-advised until the storm either uses itself up or passes on.

But the show must go on, as it always must, so it’s back to the office to prep and plan for when the weather does decide to clear up. Catch up on some reading if he’s in the mood for it. Get his old files straightened out.

Ha, who’s he trying to fool here; that’s never gonna get done no matter how much free time he’s got.

When he reaches the door of the agency, something feels off. He pretends to busy himself with the sheaf of papers in his hand and glances back down the short, cinder block alley of the entrance with his peripherals. Nothin’ there. No one lurking out against the housing walls with flinty eyes and hands in their pockets, no immediate signs of anything untoward. Looks back at the door. No wires or tension tabs or other gizmos that he can see. So he pulls his key out and cautiously slots it into the hole in the handle.

Door’s already unlocked.

He pockets the key and puts his hand on the .45 resting in its holster under his coat, tense and ready to pull as he turns the handle and lets the door fall open under its own weight. His stomach dips as he sees someone sitting kicked back at his desk across the room. They glance up and tip a finger at him.

“Good god, kid. It’s just you,” he says in a rush. Nick drops his hand away as the fear fades out. Most of it, anyway; the part that had to do with a physical threat. A fuzzy memory blinks in of sitting at a low-slung table in a dark throng of people, a strong hand inching up his thigh, and a too-close view of a smooth curve of neck and chest. The smell of moonshine-laden breath and smoky clothes. He bizarrely gets the urge to just turn around and walk right back on out into the day rather than step forward into this. But no, he’s not going to let himself be chased out of his own damn office.

“The one and only,” John says.

“How the hell’d you get in here?” he asks as he tosses his stack of notes down on a shelf and shrugs his arm out of his sleeve. He knows how, but it’s something to say while he tries not to look like he was wound up enough to draw on the unarmed, unthreatening guy leaned back in his seat. The smirk he can see on the side of John’s face says he caught it anyway. He briefly wonders if he’s got enough muscle to just snatch the kid up and force him through the door. That probably wouldn’t turn out.

“Door musta been unlocked.”

When he left, the door had definitely _not_ been unlocked. “And _why_ are you here?”

Why else?

“Now that doesn’t sound too friendly.” John’s head lolls back to fix a sharp eye on Nick as he pulls off his coat and wriggles out of his shoulder holster. He puffs a breath out and goes back to picking at a scratch on the back of his hand when Nick doesn’t look up. “Got curious, wanted to check in on the place. See what the great Mr. Valentine’s up to, y’know? Nice digs, by the way.”

Just avoiding it then. Alright.

Nick finishes hanging his coat and hat up on the rack by the door and folds his arms over his chest, knuckles crammed into his bicep. He’s right, it doesn’t sound friendly. He probably sounds pretty irritated, in fact, but Nick’s too on edge to mind his manners. He’s sure his mother would have been horrified, but that's neither here nor there.

“Listen, this is work hours right now; can’t exactly give you the tour or stop for gossip.” There's a low ache starting up at the base of his skull, courtesy of the annoyance of being startled and the… yeah, the unease of everything else. “I’ve got things I gotta do.”

“Well, what if I have a job for you?” the kid says, looking up and grinning as he rolls a pencil across Nick’s desk. He looks like he isn’t planning on either getting out of his chair or leaving anytime soon. Good. Great.

“Really,” Nick says, face and voice the epitome of skepticism. He lets out a pent-up groan and then laughs a little, despite everything. At how absurd this set-up (for what?) is.

“Yeah, might be a missing person. Guy hasn’t been gone for too long and I know he can take care of himself... but I’m starting to get kinda worried about him. Whatcha think?” John’s just sitting there with a smirk writ plain across his face. The ease and speed at which he can bullshit is really pretty impressive.

Nick sighs. _Fine,_ he thinks as he absently folds up the sleeves of his shirt. _If you wanna play this game, I can play for a few minutes. Until I see what your angle is, you menace._ “Well, go on then. Give me all the details.”

John begins talking as Nick walks further in and rights a cardboard box full of newspapers and microfilm reels that’s in danger of toppling, half listening and half wondering if he’s going to be able to get anything at all done today. He feels like the answer is no. Something big’s looming here in the space between them and he doesn’t know what it’s going to turn into, but it’s making him anxious as hell.

“Right, so this guy…”

After maybe the second thing he says (paired with the clever opener), it’s really obvious he’s just describing Nick himself. In a very… flattering way. So, not _avoiding_ it, just dancing around it for a minute until Nick’s guard was down and then pouncing. Slick tactic.

He ducks his head and busies himself with the coffee machine even though coffee is the last thing he wants right now. Criminy. He’s just hiding over here, full of tension with his face to the wall and his back to his desk where John is still talking. He tries to think of a good way to let him down as he paws through the cups and filters, some gentler way than just saying no. No, kid. I like you, but this? I can’t do this.

Though, intended or not, it’s appreciated that John’s decided to come here for this. Nick’s on his own turf and this is easier than being out in the city. No onlookers or interruptions or excessive amounts of booze to gum up the works.

But the other edge of that sword is that it all feels too real.

John’s fallen silent and Nick remembers he’s supposed to say something. _Say no._ “So,” he starts off. “I guess an important first thing to ask is: what if this guy’s not interested in being found?”

“Well, that’s the thing...”

Nick stiffens and turns to see John up and waiting there not an arm’s length away, blue eyes set on his own. The immediate invasion of his space without being able to see the approach makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. How the hell did he manage to get out of that creaky chair without making a sound?

It’s a lot easier to really see him in this lighting and so close, he thinks. See each detail on him fully and clearly. Heart going just a touch faster, he tracks and catalogues each one. Habit, obsession, trick of the trade, whatever.

He sees the light dusting of freckles over the tops of his cheeks; nearly-invisible track marks in the crook of his arm (could be an old vice but equally likely he’s just wised up to shooting somewhere less visible); the eyes, naturally set in a way that make him look a little tired and a little vulnerable; dusky marks high up on his neck that are new from the last time he saw him; the extra jag in the bridge of his nose that tells of an old break that didn’t set straight; a brief grin at Nick’s wide-eyed surprise and he can see the small, oblong yellow stain on the right side of his teeth over the canine where he takes his jet; the sun-bleached gold of his hair, all untamed waves and corkscrews; the harsh, black lines of a tattoo arcing over his neck and shoulder where it shows through his threadbare shirt; the pink lips, wet from where he’s just licked them and with the last fading remnant of that nasty scratch on the lower one.

All of it adding up to one thing: one monstrously attractive guy with each movement like a dance and each word like a siren song. Why he’s wasting those unearthly powers trying to seduce an unremarkable, aging loner like him, Nick can’t figure out.

John takes a slow step closer into his space and Nick doesn’t move. Just watches the heavy shift and roll of his hip and the way his thigh tenses when he stops. The kid reaches out and snags the tip of his tie between his fingers and warning bells are going off and Nick _still_ doesn’t move. For god’s sake he wishes he hadn’t taken his coat off when he came in. It’s just one less barrier he has between himself and… _this._

“He might _act_ like he doesn’t want to be found…” John says, pinching the cloth and rubbing it between his fingertips. His boots are almost touching the toes of Nick’s shoes. “...but I don’t think he’s being honest with himself.”

Sweat is springing out on Nick's forehead and back. The ringing, anxious anticipation in the dead silent air when neither of them is speaking is killing him. “Is that right.”

John’s other hand grips above the first and slides up, all the way up with his knuckles skimming ticklishly over Nick’s stomach and up over his chest. He’s looking up at him, but Nick can’t concentrate on anything but the loop around the back of his neck anchoring him still and the long fingers trailing up towards his throat. You don’t play with a man’s tie like this, damn it. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of electrified pins but at least his voice still sounds about as it should. “You think you know better than he does?” he says, tilting his chin up, resisting the strong urge to twist and shy away.

“It’s just a guess.” The hand holds the knot, carefully snugging it back up against his collar and centering it. He can feel every press and tug through his shirt and the faint pushes of breath that slip over the skin of his neck. It’s so damn _intimate._ “Or you’d call it a ‘hunch’, right?” John says, tone teasing.

Then the movement stills, the kid cuts his eyes away and laughs, and Nick has a split second to hope that this is all he wants. John’s just fooling with him, working him up and embarrassing him as revenge for the other night. His palm flattens over the tie’s tail and deliberately smooths back down his chest all the way to his belt buckle. Nick’s muscles jump and twitch under the pressure and he honestly can’t take much more of this. A rough exhalation is all the response he can manage. Well, if embarrassment is what John’s aiming for with this, he can stop right here and call it a win.

But John keeps his hands right where they are, and his voice is dark and soft when he looks up into Nick’s face. He’s evil. And beautiful. “You sound like you don’t wanna take the case, Valentine.” His fingers curl around the buckle. “Is incentive the problem? I can be… grateful,” he says, and it’s a cliché Nick has both indulged and shrugged off a good few times from here to Illinois, but the words are new and strange coming from a man, even as part of this little game he’s playing. Then John starts to pull, meaning to work his belt loose and that’s his limit.

“John,” Nick whispers, blood on fire and skin burning up right there with it. “Stop.”

Mercifully, he does. He takes his hand back and waits, one eyebrow raised. And Nick can’t move away; the entire time he’s been pressed up against the low table behind him and now he’s practically sitting on it, the edge of it right under his ass and the top of the coffee machine resting between his shoulder blades. He wonders if he really wants to step back this time. Would he, if he could?

“Why?” John catches the edge of his thumbnail in his teeth as he stares Nick down. “Think I don’t know what I’m doing? I’ve never had any complaints, guy or girl.”

“No, it’s j— Don’t... do this. Don’t put me in this position, okay?” Nick can’t find any volume and can plainly hear how aroused he sounds with this shuddering, breathy voice. He tries for something more jokey, tries to smile and regain some control of the situation, but it isn’t funny. It sounds way too damn close to what he really feels. “I don’t wanna be the dirty old man corrupting the youth.”

John’s eyes widen and he’s laughing and sounds utterly delighted. “You think you can corrupt me, huh? Was _that_ it? Aren’t you sweet.”

“You know what I mean, kid.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” He starts to move in again and Nick grabs his upper arms to keep him still. John just smiles and tilts his shaggy head to the side. Licks his lips and Nick’s staring at them and the way they shape his next words. “Maybe you’d better explain it to me, de-tec-tive. Since I’m so innocent.”

This is exasperating. John doesn’t want to hear his reasons… he just wants what he wants and damn the consequences. “Just… _think,_ would you? About how this looks.” His hands tighten and he can feel the solid muscle shifting under his palms, and he can’t yet tell quite how bad of an idea it is to be touching him like this. Monumentally bad? Catastrophically bad? “Alright? I’m still… pretty much a newcomer to Diamond City; still trying to fit in and earn the trust of the folks around here. You’re young as hell and I’m _twice your age.”_ He blinks, angry and aware he’s not getting through to him. No, he’s not going to shake John, no matter how irritated he is. He’s not his to shake. “You don’t see how that… _this_ might look really bad?”

The arms shrug under his hands and John’s got a sneer on his face. “If you care what the stiffs around here think, maybe.”

 _“I do!_ I have to!” Nick hisses. And then a memory surfaces and he wants to smack himself. “Jesus, Vadim already thinks we’re… I don’t know…”

John waves that off as well, though his brow creases down for a second, unable to stop it. “Vadim’s got a filthy mind; sees dirt no matter what he’s lookin’ at.”

True enough, but in his experience the veracity of a story one way or the other has never kept the bartender from spreading them around to whoever would listen. And once shit like that starts, it doesn’t stop. Hopefully he’d deemed the imagined ‘Valentine shacking up with a kid only a few years out of his teens’ one to be below his standards.

“Look, I’m trying to run a business here and if I’m that guy who’s taking advantage of the kid with the monkey on his back, you think anyone’s gonna want me to be here? Think your parents would be happy about it? I’ve seen plenty of city ejections and I’m not looking forward to attending my own.”

The smile is back in full force, all teeth and his tongue licking up over that yellow spot in silent acknowledgement. “One, I’m not gonna tell. And two, I think you’re blowing both of our importances a tad out of proportion.”

Nick wets his lips and takes a deep breath. “This is so…” he starts, and then he can’t find a word for it. Nothing that would adequately explain how desperately inappropriate the gap in their ages is. The nervousness of what-will-the-people-think that hasn’t at all been assuaged. His own internal fear digging deep and twisting in at the thought of any kind of intimacy with a man. The lower tug of how he wants to reach out and see how badly he gets burned anyway.

John interrupts his mental grasping, laughing but also sounding annoyed. The bandy muscles of his arms shift around under Nick’s hands. “What? _Improper?”_ He laughs again, quiet and derisive. “I’m not asking you to be my fuckin’ boyfriend.”

Which isn’t much of a reassurance. Flings and one-night stands have never been that simple for him; he can’t let them be, he gets attached way too damn easy, and this has all the potential in the world to go horribly wrong. Probably will.

But... _damn,_ he’s persuasive. The deadly triple team of his good looks, the directness in the way he goes after what he wants, the total ease and cockiness in his words. That high rasp that says to just trust him. Just go with it.

Nick’s cracking; he can feel it. In the tremble of his forearms and the drop of sweat sliding down his temple. He’s lost in those blue, blue eyes and then his hands loosen and there goes his grip on things. Just holding instead of holding back. “What the hell _are_ you asking me for then?” His voice breaks and it sounds husky and almost plaintive.

John senses the weakness in his hands and his words and he’s ready for it, finally moving in close for the kill. Their thighs touch, snug against each other and John’s rubbing up against him hard and insistent. “I told you: I just want you to be honest with yourself. Quit with the fake moral high ground bullshit.” His hand is hot on the side of his neck. He… _god,_ he smells really nice. “I want whatever you got for me, Nicky, or whatever you’ll let me do to you.” John’s eyes fall to his lips. “Alright? Don’t stress over it.”

He should push him away. Should’ve done that back when he went for his tie, and here’s another chance for it. Grab his arm and drive him back and tell him no. Lie to him and tell him he doesn’t want anything to do with him, he can’t do this and to please just leave him be. Just leave him… here in his empty office with his body drenched in sweat and with one of the most confusing erections of his life.

It wouldn’t be pleasant. John would be hurt after all this wind-up again and that temper he’s got would probably make an appearance, but he’d go. He might be pushy, but he’d stopped when asked. It really would be for the best. That’s all, just a motion and a few insincere words and Nick doesn’t do it.

Instead he stays perfectly still as John rubs his nose over his cheek. His breath is damp on his skin and the sensation of stubble scraping across his own is just as alien as anything. He realizes he’s being given the time to say no again, and it’s appreciated, but the cheek and corner of soft lips tracing over his skin have hypnotized him. God help him, he’s scared and overwhelmed and curious as hell. He stays as silent as he can with this pounding in his ears and this feeling of wrong wrong _wrong._

John’s lips slide over his and softly press in and he’s stunned completely still. He probably shouldn’t be; it isn’t too much different from others in the past. Soft, uncluttered, nothing tied to it; just a simple, sweet kiss. But it’s pinned him here, locked him in place at this one point as they both breathe against someone new. It’s careful and slow, and Nick can tell how John’s restraining himself and being gentler than he wants to be. John’s hands are open against him; the one cupping his neck and the other flat over his chest, the lean line of his body pressed against him. And it ends as delicately as it started, with a final light brush of lips against the corner of his mouth that trails away to nothing.

He doesn’t look up when John draws back, no doubt watching him and waiting for a reaction. He lets his head hang forward, staring into John’s shoulder and hiding his face from view as he tries to gather himself back together. All the once-even pieces that just dropped and smashed themselves to dust.

“No good?” John asks after a few seconds, quiet against his ear. A hand slips around his side to his back and he lets John hold him as he heaves out a shaky exhale. “Want me to leave?”

Hell, he can’t answer. Can’t make his mouth work properly after that, his lips tingling and face hot with blood. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and they squeeze shut on themselves.

“Hey,” John says. He touches Nick’s chin and levers it upward, fingers on his jawbone and thumb almost on his lip. Nick sees John’s face so close to his, concern tinged with mirth. “Y’alright? Hope it takes more than that for you to fall apart.”

Nick swallows and his mouth opens. “I…”

... _am going right to hell._ _Damnit._

“...need to lock the door.”


	4. Giving In Isn't Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s get this up to explicit.

_ November 28, 2280 2:20 PM _

 

Voracious. That’s how he’d describe the look on John’s face when he finishes his croaked-out surrender. It almost makes him revisit that urge to pull the door open and just flee through it when he gets there, terrified of what that look means. But that old killer curiosity wins out again, as it usually does. He pushes in the lock button and turning around seems like the slowest thing he’s ever done. Days and nights have slipped away by the time he’s facing John again and then he’s being crushed up hard against the door, ass and shoulders pressing into the painted steel and there’s a gentle thunk from the back of his head as it joins them. Kid’s stronger than he looks. The position has him feeling a bit like a flimsy, secondary barrier propped up against the outside world, and he hopes no one comes by to test him.

“Good,” John whispers, mouthing along the line of his jaw. Nick still isn’t sure what his hands should be doing so he hesitantly sets them both against John’s hips. When he sighs and leans into it, Nick shifts around and rubs his thumbs up under the hem of his shirt, finally touching hot, pliant skin. “Good good good. Fuck, I wanted this. Wanted _you,_ ” John continues. He’s grinning there among the eager kisses and licks, talking through each slick press. “I wasn’t kidding last week. I was so ready to let you fuck me. You want to?”

Nick lets out a harsh breath as his shirttails are yanked out of his slacks and the buttons are being pulled open by impatient fingers. He’s definitely not ready for that. Doesn’t even know what he’s doing right now, really. “No,” he pants out. “Too much… no.” His shirt’s been torn open, a slim finger wiggling his tie back and forth to re-loosen it and let it hang open over his chest, and he feels the hot slide of tongue over his collarbone.

“Too much?” John laughs and bites down on the meat of Nick’s shoulder to make him gasp. “And here I thought I was getting into some crazy shit with all that corruption talk.”

Yeah, in light of recent developments that statement does seem a little silly now. Still relevant concerning the opinions of outside parties, but right here between the two of them? It’s beyond silly and he knows it. John leans in and kisses his lips again. This time is rougher and there’s an edge of violence in it; it’s dizzying.

“That’s okay though,” he says. “Relax. I’ll be good for you, Nick, if you want me to be.”

Like almost everything, easier said than done. Nick’s shirt’s been pulled wide and John’s fingers are trailing over his chest and through the light scattering of hair there. Nick squirms in the unforgiving office lights, self-conscious of the greys and how he’s a tetch softer looking than he used to be; still broad-bodied and solid enough but not quite the hard, whipcord physique of his youth. He hisses as John lightly thumbs over his nipples and bends forward to bury his nose in the hair and press humming open-mouthed kisses over the thunder of his heart. John says it again as he does it, lips softening the scrape of where his teeth catch the skin. _...Relax._ Nick tries.

John tilts his head up, eyes capturing Nick’s as he sinks down to his knees in front of him. Fresh anxiety rockets through him. This is fast. He can’t call it unexpected, but it still is, somehow. Fast, aggressive… but it’s okay. The maleness is new, but the rest isn’t. This time can’t be _that_ different, can it? Even if his brain is still lagging behind, the rest of him seems to be excited enough to make up for it.

But _is_ this okay?

He realizes John said something and he has to blink and ask, “Sorry, what?”

“I said, what’d he say to you anyway? Vadim.”

Nick blows a breath out over his lip and his mind promptly fuzzes out as John runs his hand down the front of his pants, rubbing over the length of him. There’s a low, approving murmur from John that sounds like _‘Fuck, that’s nice’._ He’s making it really badly difficult to concentrate on talking or thinking.

“Thank… you?” _What did he ask?_ “I went up to the bar and he asked if you and I were… involved. Guess he saw us talking. I said no and he said— _nngh,_ easy, kid— he told me to be careful around you.” Advice soundly ignored.

John leans in and rests his forehead against Nick’s hip, exasperated. “What a cock blocking prick,” he grumbles. He straightens back up and Nick can see the wry smile on his face as he unbuckles him and pulls his fly loose. “Lemme know if you hear him say something like that again; I’ll break his fuckin’ arm.”

He gasps and mumbles out a ‘yeah, sure’ as John nuzzles up against him, breathing against his underwear and mouthing at where there’s already a dark, wet spot spreading. Nick’s hands jerk up to grab onto his head, galvanized by the soft dragging pressure against him, but he catches himself before he touches and his fingertips fall weakly against John’s shoulders instead. Unsure what he’s allowed to do, if that’s too far for some reason.

John just lays kisses and soft bites against him, the thin cotton the only thing still separating the two of them. He doesn’t look up again, fully focused on whatever he’s trying to do. Maybe make Nick lose it before his shorts even come down. But John notices his lost hands and eases back to talk, giving him just a moment of reprieve.

“Wanna touch my hair? You can. I’ve seen you staring at it,” he says, voice sweet and breathy, almost laughing. He rolls one of his shoulders where Nick’s still barely hanging on. “Do anything you want to me, okay? I won’t mind. Probably like it.”

Then the underwear are down and John’s lips and tongue and fingers are on and around him and Nick can’t stop the loud, shuddering moan that comes out at the sensation. With permission given, he sinks both hands deep into the tangle of curls. Rubs his thumbs over warm skin and lets the locks glide through his fingers, cups a wide palm over the back of his neck. It’s all just as soft as it looks and the feel of control is intoxicating. John leans into his hands and hums against his cock, grinds his tongue into the spot under the head, licks over where he’s already slick and dripping. Nick mutters a curse and looks down at him, hands lost in that blond froth and John peers right back, the sparkle of his eyes masked by the short fan of pale, pretty lashes.

“Harder. Please,” John says, kissing against him again just to pull off and let his tongue and lips drag up in a slow, wet tease. He sounds about as affected as Nick feels, and Nick’s hands clench tighter in his hair, making John’s back arch and pulling a surprised snarl across his face that melts into hissing, dark-eyed arousal. “Ssshhit yeah, Nick, like that. Make me take it.”

So he does. If this is the course he’s set on, if that’s what John wants, then he’ll do it. He’s already in the thick of it anyway, the kid all over him and asking for more. He can at least tune out the rest of it, all of the problems and what-ifs that make this so dangerous and let himself enjoy it. Sink into this and give in.

“Fine,” he grunts, batting John’s hands away with one of his own and pulling his head even further back, getting a rough gasp and an appreciative squeeze of his knee for his efforts. It’s a pose that has him feeling incredibly powerful; John’s lust-slack face tilted up to his and his throat pale and exposed. He can see the thud of his pulse in his neck and the sharp ridge of his Adam’s apple and that odd pattern of bruises circling his jaw.

Curious, he brings his free hand down and around to cover the marks. It’s a little disturbing to see his fingers fit perfectly over them, the one under his thumb with a crescent-shaped scratch at the tip. He presses his lips together at the startled hum and quicker breathing the touch elicits from John. Just as a test, he squeezes down a hair tighter before drawing away. Watches the kid’s pupils open wider, watches him silently mouth out the word ‘please’, and feels his fingers tighten where they’re clamped over Nick’s thighs. Oh, John.

Forget it. Nick straightens back up and strokes over himself once, slipping over the saliva left behind. “Fine,” he says again. “C’mere.” And John obeys; mouth falling open for it, obedient and humming a quiet ‘Uh hn’.

He takes it, takes everything Nick gives him. He lets Nick feed his cock into his mouth, sliding over his tongue and down into the hot press of his throat. Lets him run his hands through John’s sweaty hair again and again, sometimes soft and gentle and sometimes rough and jerking him tight up against his body; trying to keep on the right side of the line between controlling and rude. Lets him touch his face as he sucks and moans, tracing the hard ridges of his cheek and jaw and the fine rasp of hair there.

And it’s good. It’s so damn good he almost doesn’t notice John’s hand snaking down a few minutes later to unbutton his jeans, feverishly cupping himself through the fabric as he does it. He watches him pull his cock out, dip back in and re-adjust so everything’s hanging out over the popped elastic of his underwear, and start smoothly jerking himself off to the same rhythm as the sloppy, eager blowjob he’s currently administering.

“You really like this, huh?” Nick says with a kind of mild, breathless wonder. He’s aware of the hypocrisy there; considers how weirdly entranced he is at the sight below below him. A man down on his knees and so... hungry for him. It’s unreal.

John pulls off with a wet noise and laughs, resting his face against the curve of Nick’s thigh as he regains his breath. He angles his hips out to the side so Nick can better see what he’s doing, then his hand comes up to his mouth and he transfers a glob of spit to his palm. Nick just stares, morbidly fascinated as he gets back to it with a wicked smile, fist slicking over himself in short strokes. “Fuck yeah, I do.”

The hot, sucking pressure resumes around him and he’s adrift again; can’t stop staring at the way his cock disappears past those skilled, swollen lips as his body warms and tenses. Staring at John’s shiny knuckles as they pump up and down. He wonders why John’s even here, doing this right now. Shoving his mouth down hard over Nick, sticking his long tongue out to lick over the very bottom of his shaft and swallowing to clench his throat tighter. Because he likes it? Is that it? Break into a locked building just to suck someone off? People don’t _do_ that.

John grunts, a heavy breath of air washing over Nick's skin and the vibration traveling through him. The rhythm of John’s mouth and hand slow, sucking languid and shallow around those breathy little moans and Nick sees his skinny hips swaying into the air, thrusting into his grip. He watches the sway turn into sharp snaps and he curls his hand over himself so he doesn’t make a mess all over Nick’s pant cuffs and the floor. John whispers ‘Oh fuck… _fuck’_ around his mouthful and keeps going, whining and panting as he spills into his hand. When he’s finished, he brings the same dirty hand up to stroke the base of Nick’s cock.

He can feel it. Slippery on John’s fingers as he grabs tighter and slides over him. He doesn’t know if it’s the physical feeling or that John just doesn’t care that he’s probably licking over his own come, but something sets him off. The smoulder in his gut blossoms into a firestorm and he’s right there on the edge, taut and throbbing. There’s only a quick moment to grate out John’s name in warning before Nick’s head falls back against the door and he’s coming harder than he has in ages. It’s a fight to not shout from the sensations rocking through him; the sounds that do manage to escape him are foreign to his ears. Strained and choked up and helpless as he’s lost to the relentless burn whipping through his body and the hot, slippery suction around him.

The regret’s not there, not quite yet, but Nick can sense it creeping in around the corners as John slows and squeezes him hard from base to tip, pulling the last shivery aftershocks of his orgasm out. John looks up at him, face calm and satisfied and a wet mess of his own saliva and Nick’s come. This was a fantastically bad idea. Nick closes his eyes and slowly takes his hands back, the tendons and bones unlocking. One from the slope of John’s shoulder and one from the shorter, tighter curls at the back of his neck. What did he just do?

John rocks back onto his heels and stands up, backing off so Nick can move again and pretend to get himself back in order. Doesn’t try to kiss him again or even look at him and Nick’s not sure if he’s grateful for that or not.

Now it’s coming in harder. The regret and anxiety building. The feeling of just having broken something delicate. A bitter, needling voice pipes up in his head, _Was it worth it?_ Nick tucks himself away and zips up and starts mechanically re-buttoning his shirt as John sucks his fingers clean and wipes his mouth off on the inside of his tee. Maybe. Damnit.

And there’s the guilt worming in with the rest of it as his hands fumble around and his heart beats loud in his ears. Guilt at liking it. Black, bottomless shame at wanting more. He can’t look at him.

He turns away and leans over the low shelf behind him, hands and forearms flat on the surface and head bowed over them. Still breathing hard and feeling the sweat cooling on his chest.

_I’m not gonna tell._

John’s words echo back to him, and that’s the real crux of the whole thing, isn’t it. Trusting that offhand mention of secrecy.

A few moments pass; he barely hears John say, ‘Gonna go, okay?’

He should say something back. Anything, really. But he doesn’t. His brain is screaming at him for being such a weak idiot and his vision is thumping and… _god..._ he shifts his legs and feels the stickiness of drying saliva on his thighs. Nick just nods, staring into space with his hand resting on the stack of papers he brought in. The lock clicks loud and Nick’s fingers twitch, crumpling the sheet on top as the door swings open and then shuts a moment later. The office is dully silent again.

He waits about thirty or so seconds (plenty of time for the kid to get out of hearing range so he doesn’t mistakenly think this is directed at him) and turns and slams his fist into the center of the door. It hurts horribly and two of his knuckles have gone flat, but it makes him feel a little better. Some tiny punishment for his lack of self-control.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start the year off right with some guilt-ridden bjs.


	5. Is This the Unofficial Secret Meeting Place

_November 29, 2280 4:00 AM_

 

That radstorm Nick had been worried about was indeed passing right over the city, though it seemed to be harmless compared to the usual fare. No lightning or drizzle or even any of that eerie, metallic thunder. Just a baleful, overcast sky that barely lets any sunlight through, let alone from the stars or moon. It’s an unnatural level of darkness right now and no one’s out in it save the one or two guards patrolling the market, partial credit to the late hour and part to the threat of a sudden mood swing from the cloud bank. Which is fine. When one’s out prowling the city at four in the morning, one is rarely in the mood to see or be seen. It’s a silent, private time reserved for insomniacs and people who are either up to no good or thinking about it.

So he’s pretty damned surprised when he rounds the outside of the gardens and deserted temp housing and sees someone sitting on his favorite bench out by the Wall. Even more surprised when he recognizes the silhouette. Nick stops right where he is and unconsciously flexes his hand, unsure if he wants to approach or not. John’s head is tilted back at the sky and his arms are spread wide across the back of the bench, one ankle propped on the opposite knee looking as relaxed as anything.

Even if it’s easier to try and ignore it again, it’d be a better idea to at least try to apologize for the way he’d acted earlier. The kid’s probably gotten what he wanted out of him, sated whatever the urge was that drove him to pursue Nick in the first place (the challenge of a reluctant target? random whim?), but Nick still hadn’t handled it the way he should have. Even if John just shouts at him or gives him that furious stare he’s so good at, he needs to say something. It hasn't really been long enough for him to truly accept what happened, but the urge to set things right, or as close to that as he can get, has been gnawing at him all day.

Before he can turn the thought into a step forward, John’s head slowly tilts around ‘til he catches Nick in the corner of his eye. He snaps the rest of the way around with a jolt. Nick can’t hear specifics from this distance, but it sounds like there’s a low bark of profanity before he speaks up and calls him over. Nick can’t tell what kind of mood he’s in from his voice besides ‘alarmed’.

“Did _not_ mean to startle you, kid,” Nick says, putting his hands up as he approaches. “Wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here at all.”

“Yeah, right,” John says. He’s got a hand resting over one hip and his eyes are wild. Shoulders edged up. “Sneak up and stare at people in the dead of night. _Didn’t mean to.”_ Then he breathes out, his face relaxes into a resigned eye roll, and he pats the seat of the bench right next to his leg. “Wanna sit?”

It’s a strange thing he feels. Torn between wanting to be near enough to soak all of him in and wanting to keep a few city blocks between them. Away at a careful distance would be much kinder on his sanity. Nice and safe. “Are you gonna behave?”

John wrinkles his nose and sticks the tip of his tongue out in a fake pout. It’s annoyingly charming. “Boring, Nicky. But if that’s the price, then alright. See, hands to myself.” He makes a show of jamming both hands deep into his pants pockets and then scoots to the side to make room for him.

Nick settles down on the cold slats of the bench. There’s only the faintest bit of light coming from behind them, one of the flickery but still-functional streetlights.

“So,” Nick says.

“So,” John answers.

“...” Nick’s mouth opens and then closes again with no words produced. This is a little more difficult than he thought it’d be. Try her again. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I, ah, didn’t react very well. To… the last time we saw each other. You alright?” A few stumbles, but good enough.

“Me? Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Nick's about as confused as John sounds. “I completely ignored you after, didn’t I. That wasn’t exactly considerate.”

John makes a noncommittal noise and rolls his shoulders, pockets pulling up from the motion of his hands. “I guess,” he says. “But better than getting kicked around or having my face rearranged. ‘S’why I left, kinda got the vibe like you mighta been angling for that next. ...Were you?” he tacks on at the end, sounding only marginally interested. “You don’t seem like the type but...” The sentence fades away like he’s lost even that small glimmer of interest in it.

Nick frowns. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Hm.” John stares off, looking hard at the wall in front of them. The silence stretches out and Nick’s not sure what to say. He’s almost curious enough to ask just how often that’d happened for him to sound so blasé about it but ends up keeping it to himself. John doesn’t care and just thinking about it is enough to make Nick’s fingernails dig dents into his palms.

“Was it bad then?” John asks finally.

“No! No, it…” _...wasn’t bad,_ of course not. Felt like an anxious mess for the rest of the day waiting around for some kind of divine retribution that never came, but the physical, tactile aspects? About as far from bad as you can get. The kid’s thin fingers twisting into his shirt as he kissed him, those soft, slick moans, his lips warm on his... throat. “...it wasn’t bad.”

John chokes out a laugh at the awkward stumble of words and grins cheerlessly into the night. “Fuckin’ thank you. Bet you say that to all the boys.”

Nick pulls his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, thoroughly pushing it out of place. Yeah, maybe that did sound insulting. Offense by omission. “Look, it was fantastic, alright? You obviously know what you’re doing,” he says.

John appears somewhat mollified and mutters a quiet, ‘Damn right.’

“And I’ve never said that to any boy.” Nick pauses and puts a deliberate point on his next words. “Never had to.”

He can see John’s eye widen and can almost hear the creak of his neck as he turns to look at Nick. “Oh my god. That was y— was I your first guy?”

Nick shifts in his seat, feeling like a grouchy museum exhibit under that gleeful, probing gaze. “Don’t smile so wide, kid, the top of your head’s gonna fall off.”

“Shit, are you serious?” He cackles and Nick raises a hand to his face, plasters it over his cheek and forehead. It’s all hot to the touch and he wonders how red he is and if John can see it in the darkness. John quiets after a few seconds with a thoughtful look on his face. “But… oh. That’s why you went all...” He trails off and makes a wavy hand gesture.

Nick sighs and mumbles through his fingers, “Partially, yes.”

John nudges closer, though he sticks to what he said and keeps his hands safely tucked away in his jacket. Nick can feel the heat of his leg and hip on his own and smells something sugary on his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me? I woulda been nicer about it. Shit, now I kinda feel like a dick.”

“I don’t know,” Nick says, still flustered and getting more so as he thinks about it. Was it embarrassment for some reason? Shy about his lack of experience in sexual escapades with other men? Jesus. “Maybe I didn’t want you eyeballin’ me like you’re doing right now.” Nick turns to glare at John now grinning away at him and he’s struck again by how… pretty he is. Crazy and dirty and all the more lovely for it. “And you _are_ a dick. Now do you think we can change the subject maybe?”

John laughs and shrugs, eyebrows raised. “Sure, man. Go right on ahead.”

Nick looks up at the dull green sky and flips his collar up higher against the occasional slips of wind. Tries to relax against the bench again with a long huff. “What are you doing out here at this hour, anyway? Starting to think your having a bedtime was a load of bull.”

John snorts and looks up as well, mirroring him. “Ooh, y’got me. Dad and ma are out on one of the farms working for the rest of the month, bringin’ it in for the winter and Charlie doesn’t care what I do as long as I’m not bothering him with it. As for what I’m _doing_ out here…” He switches his hands from his jeans to his jacket and digs for a second. “...here’s the official story if any of the nightshift happen to wander over.” He pulls a pink and red cardboard box out of his far pocket and tilts it so Nick can read the curving letters on the label that spell out ‘Sweethearts’. “But really, I was too revved up to sleep and it’s pretty hard to relax or jerk one out when your brother’s on the other side of the wall snoring like a yao guai. So I’m just passin’ some time.” And he pulls a bigger tin out of the other pocket, ‘MENTATS’ embossed on the front. “The candy covers up the smell of these pretty good. Want one? They’re the weird kind; you were lookin’ pretty interesting when you were lurking in the shadows over there.”

Nick shakes his head. The alcohol and cigs are a bad enough habit; he can’t really justify pills or injectables besides the occasional stim when things get dire. “Not really my thing. But I’ll take some of those. And I wasn’t _lurking.”_

“Yeah, you were.” John thumbs open the pink box and shakes a few into Nick’s palm, taking one of them for himself and chasing it with a mentat. “I’d do these at home but guy’s got a freaking sixth sense about this kind of stuff and he hates it.

“And now I’m gonna ask you the same question,” John says. He puts his elbow on the back of the bench between them and rests his head in his hand. Gettin’ a little close. But not close enough to tell him to cut it out. The extra warmth is nice, at any rate. It’s another chilly night and that damp, biting breeze is finding every hole and split seam in his coat with unerring precision. Being able to roam around after dark is one of his favorite parts of living in a safe city, but the late year weather here sure does get snippy. “What’re you doin’ out here scarin’ the pants off people, huh?”

Nick gives up on the denials; he’s not gonna convince him. “I was having a hard time sleeping too. Anticipating something unpleasant, I guess. ...You’ve seen more of these than I have,” he says after a trailed-off pause, pointing up at the storm clouds. “What do you think? Gonna bleed out or get worse?”

“Mm. It would’ve already gotten worse if it was gonna. Bet it’s done.”

Some good news then. “I’ve gotta head over to Goodneighbor for a new case as soon as I can. Suppose it’ll be tomorrow if this isn’t turning into rain or rads.” He sighs and pushes his hair back so he can cram his hat back on. “I could even go right now and just get it over with; doubt I can sleep and dawn’s not far off.”

John tilts an interested eyebrow up. “Uh huh. Not a fan?”

“Makes me nervous as hell. One visit was enough for me. And two didn’t get any better.”

The entire, ironically-named town is full of glitz and attempted grandeur, yeah, but that’s just the surface. Reminds him of an overly-fancy gun that might look showy and delicate, all smooth lines and custom scrollwork, but can still be plenty deadly if you go prodding around the wrong places. Run and handled by an unscrupulous maniac named Vic and his cronies, it’s more like an ultra-civilized raider camp than the freewheeling merch and entertainment town it pretends to be. It has traders and bars and travelers are welcomed in with open arms, sure, but welcomed in to what? A place where you’re pretty damn likely to get a serious beatdown or even a knife in the back from its dressed-up guardian thugs if they decide they don’t like your face or they way you look at them.

Despite, or maybe even because of, that learn-fast-or-get-dead reputation, the place is somehow really damn successful. Not as big or populous as Diamond City, not even close, but the amount of trade in chems, weapons, sex, and harder to find items like power cores, holos, super stims and implants, and bits of RobCo tech that still work make it a very heavy-hitting trading hub.

And whenever he’s on adultery or runaway cases like this there’s a damn good chance he ends up having to go picking through these sketchy death traps. Really, he could have done away with most of the investigation and just tried Goodneighbor as a first stop. It’s almost a formula at this point. Person decides they’ve had enough at home for one reason or another. Toss up on if there’s stolen guns or caps or children involved. Runs off to Goodneighbor or Redtown or the Exchange or insert-other-shady-establishment-here. The hunt ensues. If they’re found, another toss up on if they can be persuaded to return to the worried spouse or give an explanation to relay back to the angry ones. Usually not; there’s rarely any arguing with them once they’ve taken that downhill roll into these places where the dregs of mankind fetch up.

And that’s why he usually asks for the entire payment up front on these little numbers.

“The last time I was there Vic had one of his pals let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he doesn’t like me snooping around,” Nick says. He’d gotten out of that one with just a scuffle and a warning to keep his fucking nose out of Vic’s and the merchants’ affairs. Easy enough to agree to when he didn’t give half a rat’s ass about either. Their worry was understandable though. Lotta iffy stuff going on there that wouldn’t hold up so well under close scrutiny, and scrutinizing was pretty much his universe for the last twenty-odd years. So his relationship with the ruling class of Goodneighbor was tenuous. On a good day. “And the trip there is even worse than the stay itself. Never seen so many super mutant hives and ferals in such a populated area.”

“Well, can’t say I agree with the low opinion, but if Vic’s your problem, I can’t argue. Him and that spooky asshole Sinjin are everything wrong with that place.” John frees his hand from under his head and absently flops it down to drag over Nick’s shoulder and pluck at the cloth. And just like that, the tension’s coming back, shortening his breath and winding the muscles of his back up tight. It generates a quick exchange of looks between the two; Nick’s saying _You’re pushin’ it, kid_ and John’s answering _Yeah? You gonna do something about it, then?_ He will if it keeps on going. And knowing John...

“So, you take the tough way there, huh,” John says, fingers (predictably) moving to Nick’s collar. “Been a while since I’ve gone but I _might_ have a couple pretty safe routes there and could _possibly_ let you tag along. If you want. Just sayin’.”

John’s hand dips past the line of cloth and skin to touch his neck. It’s a light, but deliberate caress down the tendon that sends icy shivers skittering up the back of his head. And now he moves, claps a hand over John’s; fingers linking around the thin wrist and trapping it still against him. His pulse beats through the warm flesh of John’s palm and Nick gives him another look. This one has no unspoken message; he just says it himself. “We need rules about this.”

John eyes him when Nick doesn’t let the captured hand move and his voice goes a touch flat. “Rules. Look, I’ll take you if you want me to take you, but don’t start getting all fucking bossy.”

“No, never mind that, listen to me,” Nick says, pulling John’s hand off and away. “Right now we’re alone but you can not do this. It’s not worth my job.”

“Coward,” John says. He sounds almost fond.

The kid sets his elbow back on the bench, curling his arm around Nick’s now-rigid shoulder and looking him right in the eyes as he does it. Daring him to grab him again. Maybe this is what he thinks is fun? Poking and nudging until things erupt? Nick grits his teeth, bristling at the flippant way he’s being ignored. There’s a difference between being a coward and being smart for Christ’s sake.

“I get it, though,” he goes on. “I can stop.”

Nick looks down at the arm trailing off behind him. Can’t see that far back without twisting around, but he _can_ feel the pressure of fingertips tracing the upper part of his spine through the thick material of his coat. “You sure? Because you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

John licks his lips, the dark pink of his tongue barely there and then gone. “Well, that’s cuz there’s a condition, Nicky my love; I want something from you first.”

A condition. Shit. Nick’s stomach clenches down into a hard knot of dread and the silence around them grows even deeper. He braces for the worst; John’s got all the power here and Nick has no idea what to expect.

And John sees it on him, blows an exasperated huff of air over his lip. “Oh, come on. You look like you think I’m about to ask for your first born or the deed to your fuckin’ house.” He tilts his head to the side, doing that thing with his eyes that makes him look all demure and harmless. That’s a laugh. “Thought we were friends, man, lighten up. You think I’m gonna pull something horrible on you?” he says with a smile. His free hand pushes a snarl of windblown hair away from his face. “I just want a kiss. That’s all.”

The knot’s still there, sucking the breath out of his lungs and the warmth from his body, but it does loosen a bit and Nick sighs quietly. ‘That’s all’? He's torn between thinking _it could’ve been so much worse_ and _Jesus Christ, seriously?_ and wanting to strangle the adorable little jackass.

“Kid, you’re a damn nuisance.”

“Y’know, I don’t hear that nearly as often as I think I should.” John just stares him down, the left corner of his lips twitched up into a smirk. “So?” he prompts. “No one here but us.”

Nick feels like he should argue, doesn’t wanna roll over so easily for what sounds an awful lot like blackmail but… he’s… probably right. It’s a risk, but the place is as cold and still as death; there’s been neither hide nor hair of anyone else since he first turned the corner.

Nick shivers. Not entirely because of the wind this time, but from wondering what else he’s gonna end up letting John talk him into. Kid’s a terrible influence. “Fine,” he says. “Okay? Fine. Just… god damnit, keep it off the streets, yeah?”

John’s eyes almost glow. “You got it. And do it right, would you please. Don’t half-ass it.”

Nick reaches over and slips an arm around John’s waist, pulling him tighter against his side. He’s relaxed back down into simple grouchiness again instead of fear, but even that’s starting to melt away. Grudgingly. His other hand runs over John’s cheek; thumb on his cheekbone and fingers stroking over the back of his neck through those soft damned curls. John’s eyelashes flutter and Nick’s heart is right there with them. _Do it right, huh,_ Nick thinks. _Guess I can manage that._

He leans in slowly, keeping his eyes on John’s face in front of him and moving back just out of reach when he tries to close the distance himself. “You promise?” Nick says, voice low and lips just barely grazing John’s.

It’s so nice to hear John all breathless and shaky instead of it being him. “I promise,” he says, eyes starry and the last shred of his smile still there. “Cross my heart, baby.”

Nick kisses him. Right here on his favorite bench, out in the open but with no one around to witness it but them. His fingertips pull John in and he can feel his body go loose and easy against the cage of his arms, folding under him and letting Nick hold him close. He tips John’s head back and smooths his palm up the bony ridge of his shoulder blade and lets it rest there, feeling the swell of breath under his ribs. He tastes the sweet tang of mentats as John opens for him and Nick takes the invitation to slide their tongues together; hot and slippery wet. John moans into him when Nick sucks his lip into his mouth and bites; the vibrations of it on his lips and in his hands and it’s a good reminder that he should probably stop before he really gets carried away. It’s funny that even through his nerves, there’s a pang of disappointment as he pulls back, already missing the feel of his lips and the way his hands reflexively tighten around Nick’s forearms.

John looks stricken when Nick opens his eyes again; his nostrils flaring with heavy breaths, pupils big and dark and fixed dead on Nick and boy, if that doesn’t send his confidence through the roof. He’s breathing just as hard as John is, but Nick can’t resist a light dig at him. “How’d that work for ya?”

John exhales and slumps forward, tonguing his bitten lip and resting his forehead against Nick’s. “I would love to blow you right now,” he whispers, sounding almost resentful. _“I know,_ okay, but… damn.”

This time it’s easier to turn down, even though his own blood is racing after that and his body is giving him very clear signs of interest. Even though he knows the kid would absolutely do it, and do it like a pro. No idle threats there. Nick kisses him again, a quick peck on the tip of his slightly crooked nose (which earns him a funny, offended sort of look) and says, “Nope.”

“You horrible man.” John laughs and extracts himself from Nick’s arms, shakes his shoulders like he’s trying to free himself from a lingering thought. He bounces up off the bench a second later, turning and holding his hand out for Nick to take. “Well, you still wanna go?”

He blows a breath out over his lip and lets John pull him to his feet. “Do _you?_ Now?” he asks as John steps back. “Or did you need more time than that? I know it’s early and I kinda sprang this on you.”

It’s a weird situation. Sudden. Running off to Goodneighbor on no sleep, under a storm-dark sky, and accompanied by this odd kid he’s only been around for a total of maybe six hours. But if it saves him wading through mutant nests, he’ll deal with a little weirdness.

John considers for all of about half a second, shifting foot to foot. “No yeah, let’s get goin’ already. Just get my bag and leave Charlie a ‘fuck you, I’ll be back soon’ note.”

Nick snorts at John’s impatience and pulls his sleeve up to glance at his watch. The fragile leather straps are still making a valiant effort to hang onto the lugs. “We’ve got a little bit ‘til sunup. Get your things in order and I’ll see you at the office when you wanna head out, yes?” John nods. “We won’t be out of town more than a day or two.”

And that’ll be true if nothing goes wrong and they can keep out of trouble. Tall order, but hope springs eternal.


	6. That's Not a Knife or Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goin' from nonsense filler to actual story, whoops how'd that happen.

_ November 29, 2280 5:30 AM _

 

The knock comes about a half hour later. Nick’s been anticipating it, but it still makes his eyes twitch up toward the noise in surprise. This morning feels like a dream; murk and oppressive silence outside instead of the sunrise and there’s heaviness in his head and a sleepless burn in his eyes in place of the usual wakefulness. Wouldn’t’ve blamed John or been too shocked to find out he’d gotten home and decided to just stay there, no matter how gung-ho he’d sounded earlier. But, hey, he hadn’t.

“It’s open,” Nick calls at the door, too loud for how quiet it is out there.

John slinks in, cheeks pinked from the cold and drops a mostly empty backpack next to the entrance before slowly making his way over. He tears the zip on his jacket down to let the warmer air of the office in.

“Glad you came. Have you eaten?” Nick asks.

“Uh. Bag of shortbread cookies before I went over to the Wall.”

“That’s not food.”

John throws his hands up in sarcastic amusement. “Yeah, well, excuse the fuck outta me. I didn’t realize my midnight breakfast was gonna be on trial at the time.”

“Just wanna make sure you’re alert is all.” He can sure feel his own lack of sleep rearing its head; maybe by the time they make it over there his body will have caught up with his mind and he can catch some Z’s. Nick gestures down at the machine in front of him where the drip’s pretty much done. “Coffee?”

“You might live to regret offering me caffeine, but yeah, sure. And that’s not food either,” John points out. Nick snorts and hands over a cup, one of the few un-chipped ones. John settles himself on the clean side of the desk, kicks his feet through the air, and just holds the coffee in his hands for a moment, staring into it before blowing some of the steam away and taking a tiny sip. “Sugar, huh? Fancy.” He holds it there under his face and watches over the rim as Nick tips a box of bullets into his own satchel. “...The way there should be completely deserted if that’s what’s getting you all nervous.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not doubting you, kid, but it’s only safe ‘til it’s not. Not to mention once we actually get there. I prefer to be ready for the unexpected.” If the Scouts were good for anything, it was probably that little tidbit of wisdom. And speaking of that. “What sorta weapons you good with? Got one?”

“I’m not much of a shot if that’s what you’re asking. Better up close with my knife or my hands.”

Nick takes a long, unimpressed drink and sets his empty cup back down on the table. “Knives, huh.”

“Hey, if you’re quick with it, knife almost always beats gun in close quarters.”

“If you’re quick, yeah,” Nick muses.

That look is suddenly on his face again. The grinning, dark-eyed challenge. John sets his own half-empty cup down next to his thigh, attached to the leg that’s no longer cheerily swinging his foot back and forth. “Why don’t you try and draw on me. Right now.” His voice is far too casual for him to be anything but absolutely sure he’d be the winner of that contest. Nick’s already a little suspicious due to how quickly and quietly John got up and out of his chair the last time he was here.

Nick glances over his shoulder at him, then turns back. Both shoulders sag and he lets out a sharp breath like a laugh. “Come on, it’s a little early for that kind—”

He draws. It’s easy, the same grip and slide like he’s done hundreds of times before. Palm on the smooth grip, finger laid to the side over the trigger guard, a pull back out of the holster and he spins toward where John is right in the middle of colliding with him. If Nick had any worries about it before, this dispels them. He’s fast as hell. They end up crushed together in a tense, overheated tangle. Table legs squeak and papers and filters sift to the floor as they shove against it; John’s free hand roughly forcing Nick’s wrist up to just barely aim the barrel over the kid’s shoulder instead of at his lung; Nick’s left hand arrowing out into John’s throat, momentum dying as soon as he makes contact; and the tip of John’s knife resting against Nick’s chest, the point nestled firmly in between his ribs and angled up right at his heart.

They freeze there, feeling out where they are and which one of them has a punctured ticker and which one has a crushed windpipe and temporary deafness. Breathing hard and eyeing each other with some new kind of appraisal.

The moment shatters when Nick finally laughs, lets his arms relax and pulls his hand off John’s neck and drops his gun back where it belongs. “Alright, I’m sold,” he says. John smiles again, the manic snarl on his face and his tight grip slipping away together.

Nick pulls his shirt out and checks for unfelt holes or blood, but there are none. It’s not obvious if that’s due to John’s good control, or the sorry state of his knife. “Knife wins. But jeez, what _is_ that thing?” He points at John’s hand, the pitted, dull blade still standing out there between his fingers.

“Yeesh, the hits keep on comin’. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to make fun of a man’s knife?” John plops back down on the desk with a huff; pokes the tip into his palm and twirls it around, displaying how blunt it is. “Still works if you really jam it in there good.”

That’s an image. “Good lord. Finish that, okay?” Nick says, nodding at John’s abandoned coffee. He turns and snugs the straps on his bag down and then starts up the stairs in the back. “I’m gonna grab something and then we should head out.”

He hears John resume his kicking as he searches around his small bedroom for the box he knows is up here somewhere. Full of stuff he doesn’t use but still can’t bear to get rid of.

“Hey, Nick?” John calls up from below.

“...Yeah?”

“What’s the deal anyway? Why y’in such a rush to get over there?”

Nick pauses in the middle of opening a big cardboard mess strapped up with packing tape and closes his eyes before calling back. “You had to wait ‘til I was out of the room to ask?”

He can hear John cough and then start to hack out a laugh. “Shouting’s good for the soul.”

“Yeah, and bad for keeping the neighbors off your back,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. He digs under a scrap of leather and a few old books and glass jars of unidentified dreck and his eye falls on what he was looking for. Nothing special, but it’ll be a clear step up from current conditions.

John’s still where he left him, though he’s scooted back so he can lean against the wall, thin legs crossed and a hand draped over the cover plate of his Carlisle. “I’ll tell you the whole story when we’re on our way there. For now, here.” Nick holds out the knife from upstairs handle-first, the long blade pinched between his fingers. “We’ll both be safer with that sad thing out of the picture.”

John doesn’t move to take it. Just looks at it, cocks his head and glances up at Nick. The giant question mark on his face couldn’t be more clear if it’d been drawn on there in red paint. “...What do you want for it?”

Nick looks down at the knife he’s still holding out to what might as well be the aether. It’s a simple thing. Well-worn wooden handle, battered metal guard and pommel, but a gleaming sharp steel blade that glints under the overhead. Obviously old and used, but the parts that matter kept in lovingly good condition. It’s been resting in that box almost since he got here, some old souvenir from a ridiculous person with a ridiculous life the kid would probably be interested in hearing about sometime. It seems almost perfect to pass it on to John. “Nothing?” Maybe there’s something he’s not getting, he thinks as John frowns. “I’ll trade ya for your old one,” Nick offers.

John snorts, presumably still at the perceived value imbalance and raises both pale eyebrows. “You really wanna give this to me?”

“Why not?” Nick asks, still holding the blade between finger and thumb and turning it side to side. “This doesn’t violate some ancient tenet I’m not aware of, does it? ‘Exchange weaponry not with a youth else be ye struck blind and desolate ‘til the end of days’ or something to that tune?”

That startles a laugh out of him and the wary look on his face fades. “No.” John puts a hand out and wraps it around the wood handle, fingers falling into the worn grooves of the ones that held it before. He slides it through Nick’s grasp and hefts it, examining the razor sharp edge and gently pressing the tip to the pad of his thumb. He hums at the tiny drop of blood that wells up almost immediately and presses it to his tongue. “Just… thanks.”

Nick smiles at the pure sincerity on John’s face and in his voice. “Don’t worry about it, kid.” Then he chuckles as John makes a point of laying his rusted switchblade next to his empty cup on the desk, completing the transaction. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” John sheathes the knife with some reluctance. Seems to want to keep looking at it and pricking little holes in himself with it. “Yeah,” he says again, louder. He slaps his thighs and winks up at Nick. “Let’s get this show on the road.”


	7. Like a Good Neighbor, You Know the Rest

_ November 29, 2280 6:00 AM _

 

It becomes very apparent very quickly why the route John takes is abandoned. Mirelurks. Almost enough of them for Nick to be okay with calling it a horde.

John and Nick crouch together behind a car, watching the things lumber about in the shallow, water-filled pit that makes up the street ahead. Little egg clutches dot the cracked asphalt and nearly as frequent are drifts of mossy bones and old, discarded ‘lurk shells and claws. It’s difficult to see in the green-grey darkness, but there are also the unmistakable shapes of more mirelurks, sleeping; huge, boulder-like curves rising partially out of the water like reserve troops. John lays an arm out over the hood and points at something closer to them than the nest.

“That big sheet of metal siding right there, the one with the blue scribble on it, it’s hiding a ladder up. There’s apartments we can go through and then it’s mostly rooftops, overpass, a few skybridges. All set?”

It’s manageable. The cold makes the things sluggish; slow to turn which hinders their already awful field of view and slow to move at all as they clitter around on their multiple legs. It’s the smell of them that’s really their scariest feature right now.

Nick trails after John, both keeping low and as near the crumbling walls as possible. They move in slowly, freezing when needed and duck behind the old boards and siding wedged in the mound of rubble before any of the creatures can spot them. Nick clambers up, following the clunk of the kid’s boots on the fire escape rungs and they both pause at the top, looking down at the still placid ‘lurk nest and out across the sea of faded brick and steel and stonework all around them. The huge stadium lights of Diamond City can still be seen peeking out over to the right. A glowing metal fist raised in farewell or greeting on the horizon.

“So, that was the hardest part. Guess all I’ve got to say now is watch your feet. There’s no one up here to shoot you, but I’m not putting any bets on you not crashing through some rotten flooring if y’ain’t payin’ attention. Waterfront housing can kiss my ass.”

Nick grunts a laugh and lingers over the rail a second more as John turns to pull the door behind them open. Weak floors or no, this is already better than traveling on his own. Passing under yawning windows and splintered door frames, pools of shadow and looming wrecks where anything could be looking out with pale, hungry eyes… it’s nerve wracking. Fills him with a skittery feeling of vulnerability that he hates. The human imagination is probably the greatest (or worst?) creator of monsters out there.

So having another pair of eyes at his side and a familiar voice to keep out the creeps is a relief. Maybe it’s the reassurance of an extra hand if it comes to a fight, or maybe it’s just the distraction from that inner foundry of fear and paranoia. Either way, it makes him feel a sudden swell of gratitude for the curly-headed gremlin behind him. He turns around to see John waiting for him, mock-impatient in the doorway, hip cocked out and arm braced against the frame with a small smile on his face.

“Sightseeing?”

“Well, can you blame me with a view like this?” Nick says, a series of shrill clicks rising from one of the mirelurks casting around below.

John laughs and then beckons him inside with a jerk of his chin. “I know, the water bugs really highlight the chic atmosphere of the ruins.”

Nick drags the door shut behind them and turns around to John pressing a flashlight into his chest. “Lowest setting and keep it pointed at the floor. Just in case,” John says with a shrug, awash in the red glow of the exit sign above them and tugging the collar of his shirt up over his nose. “And maybe don’t breathe too much. Ugh. Fuckin’... shit. Let’s get a move on.”

They move through the dim hallway, a swarm of dust motes swirling through the beams of their lights. The carpeted floor and papered walls completely deaden any sounds they might have made; the only things still coming out clearly are their steady breaths and the clink of the buckles and clasps on their bags. Water stains bloat and discolor the walls, and Nick has a prickly moment to appreciate that none of the apartment doors have been left open. No one likes open tombs.

“So, you gonna spill the beans yet or do I have to wait some more?” John’s barely speaking above a murmur, but the place is so quiet it sounds like he’s right next to Nick’s ear. It gives Nick the thought that any louder noise would practically be sacrilege. Maybe John feels it too.

“Right.” Nick starts to take in a short breath and it nearly turns into a coughing fit. He gags it back and follows John’s steps around a section of floor that looks soft and sunken in. “This one’s a little sensitive, so I’m gonna need your word that you won’t spread any of it around. Not sayin’ you would, just wanna make certain.” Honestly, he shouldn’t have discussed that other with John at all, but he’s gonna put all blame for that slip on the drinks. And while this one is certainly delicate and he still shouldn’t… well, it helps to bounce things off someone else at times.

“‘Course, man. Lips are sealed.”

“Well, the whole thing started out with someone stealing a bunch of caps and vanishing without a word.”

“As things often do.”

“True enough.”

John stops at a new door and pulls it open, revealing a concrete stairwell. The part of it that leads down is filled with cinder blocks and garbage and more stuff and detritus that Nick would describe as ‘building guts’. But the stairs up are still usable, their footsteps in here much louder and echoing against the walls. Nick waits ‘til they hit the roof access and step back out into the (comparatively) fresh air and morning gloom to speak again.

“So, the client this time is one Mr. Donald Alpar—”

“Oh no, Donnie? Guy helped me chase off a pissed off brahmin once. Got a badass tattoo on his leg… uh, that I can tell you all about later.” John yanks the squalling door closed with a grunt and a sheepish look on his face.

Nick smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Well, let’s stop for a sec, actually.” He makes his way over to the slanted lip of the roof they’ve emerged onto and looks out, hand on an old AC unit for balance.

“Aw, old legs tired already?” John says behind him.

“No, smartass.” Nick throws a dirty look over his shoulder and then turns back toward the web of street and sidewalk below. It’s his damn head that’s tired, not his legs. “I don’t know how often I’m gonna get out here and the view really is somethin’ else. How high up are we?”

“Last number plate I saw in there said nineteen, that’s pretty high.” John plunks himself down at the roof's edge and grins up at Nick, tugging at his pant leg. His eyes and hair are the only bright spots against the monotone backdrop of architecture and sky. “Let’s look if we’re gonna look.”

Nick obliges him and levers himself down to sit, letting John sneak an arm around his waist and drop his head onto Nick’s shoulder. Forty-five years of walking the earth and Nick has never met anyone who wanted to be in such constant contact with him. Unusual. But comforting, in a way. Always shuffling closer so a thigh or hip or knee is touching, hands always on the move to brush against a shoulder or rest on an arm. It’s a wonder the kid hasn’t just gone ahead and crawled into his lap.

They look out over the city, dark and vast and inimical as ever. It gives him the same strange feeling it always does, that sense of lost beauty and a vague yearning for something he was never around to see. Some dizzy mix of hope and despair in the broken, blunted teeth jutting up from the ground.

“Pretty romantic, neh?”

Nick laughs. It might be, if not for the layer of radioactive haze in the sky, the dull deadness of everything around them, and the sub-zero chill in the seat of his pants. He leans into the warmth at his side and plants a loud kiss on top of John’s head, pressing his nose into the faint perfume of his hair.

“And here I forgot to bring the wine and candles.”

“Hah. If you wanna get loaded on a roof and do something ungentlemanly with me I am one-hundred percent on board with that.” John’s hand slides down and the fingertips squeeze light into Nick’s hip.

“Pretty brave for it being almost December. Now, you still wanna hear what happened?”

John primly mimes pulling a zipper across his face and Nick starts talking again. The wind whips up around the eaves, carrying his voice off into the abyss in front of them while John slumps further into his side to pick the gravel out of the soles of his boots.

“Donnie with the badass tattoo got a new lady friend recently. Real pretty, quick mind, quicker tongue. She said she was one of the runners from up Bunker Hill and was in town for some reason or another. They met, got along uh, rather well, Donnie’s son liked her, she moved in with them after a few weeks. A little quick, but nothin’ too weird he said. Seemed very smitten with her. At first anyway.” Nick waits a moment, feeling John’s breath pause like he wants to talk.

“He lives up in the mid-stands. I don’t get up there too much, but, huh. Didn’t know about this. She a homebody?”

Back home in Chicago that would’ve been a strange assumption to make. The city was massive and spread out, nearly rivaling its pre-war status. So big it required its own police force. But here was far far different, and that small-town familiarity was able to shine out and cast its shadows.

“Do you people-watch a lot?” Nick asks.

John flicks a final pebble off the edge of the roof. No discernible sound when it lands. “I... do. ‘S fun to keep track of people. Got a good eye? mind? for names and faces. And I meet lots of nice folks doin’ it,” he adds with a nudge.

Nick nudges him back. “Well, you’re right, he said she stayed in a lot. Which was a little odd to me, considering her job. But things were fine, he said. Until another two weeks or so passed and she was gone one morning. Cleaned out his safe; caps, paper money, ring pulls, what have you. So, that’s what I got the initial request for. Track this woman back to Bunker Hill if she’s there and get his cash back.”

“But we’re not goin’ to Bunker Hill.”

“Nope, sure aren’t. Think we better keep moving too; I’ve had enough of a break.” He’s still tired, but has enough go in him to make it to their destination. Get there, get a room at one of the hotels or bars, look around a bit, get dinner, a few hours of sleep, and then really get the hunt going. And go until he finds what he’s there to find.

They stand, readjust their bags, and cross the curling tar paper roof to the makeshift bridge connecting this building to the next, really not much more than a couple bed frames lashed together and braced against the walls. Despite the extremely rickety look of it, John strides right across like it’s not just rusted angle bars and sheets of plywood suspended over a two hundred foot drop, so Nick follows. It holds.

“And we’re not goin’ there because yesterday evening, I got an update from Donnie. His son’s missing too.”

John’s turned to help him over a mound of rubble piled up at the edge of the next bridge and the look on his face goes from concentration to faintly horrified. “Oh, fuck. She took his kid?”

“It sure looks that way, yeah. He said she’d taken Luke over to his friend’s house two days prior to her disappearance. Somethin’ they’d done for a few years already. Spend a few nights a week at the other’s house so the parents could catch a little alone time and the kids could play together and do the whole sleepover thing. Went to go get him when he was supposed to, probably thankful he wasn’t around to see the aftermath of the thievery, and the friend’s parents said they hadn’t seen Luke at all.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So that’s why we’re going to Goodneighbor and not the Hill. I don’t think this was personal in any way. They haven’t known each other long enough for that kind of hate. Just took his money and the only other thing of possible value he had.”

“Trafficking.”

“Mm.” Nick’s stomach twists and he feels his body tense and his jaw tighten, but he won’t let it go any further than that. He needs his head level to get through this with the result he wants. He’s no use to Luke if he doesn’t keep it together.

They find another roof access door and head back into the dusty confines, this time going down instead of up. The flashlights come out again and help them pick their way through stairwells, hallways, collapsed walls and living areas thick with the smell of age and wet rot, almost all the way down to the ground before emerging back outside onto a curving overpass.

“Wellp, we’re close,” John says as he looks around. Nick swings his legs up over the partition and scans around as well, picking out an irregularly shaped building that seems like it might be familiar. They start making their way up the gently curving ramp of stone and asphalt, picking between old cars, trucks, and a few cityliners. “What’s the plan when we get there, man?”

Nick breathes out long and loud, running his hand along the side of a blue sedan that hasn’t decayed too badly. Shoes crunch over broken glass and the crumbled remains of the dividers. “Got a few things to do. Discreetly ask around if anyone’s seen this dame. Donnie says her name is Vy, but after everything else I kinda doubt it, so all I’ve got is a physical description.”

They hit the crest of the overpass and the mismatched heap of buildings that make up Goodneighbor rises into view. Pink and blue neon splits the gloom, making a cheery beacon in the distance.

“Then I gotta get a room somewhere so I can take a nap and recharge. Knew not sleeping last night was gonna bite me in the ass.” Nick looks over at John who appears to be busily scaling the back of one of the buses, fingers and toes digging into the ridges and exhaust vents. He scrambles up over the top and struts down the middle, Nick resuming his walk and keeping pace with him on the ground. Lack of sleep is apparently not a problem they share.

“Gonna catch me when I leap into your arms?”

“You can try it,” Nick says with a quirked eyebrow. “Hope your head’s not as soft as it seems.”

John slaps a hand to his chest and makes a face of exaggerated, agonizing pain. Turning away, Nick almost misses the rude hand gesture when the kid’s done with the theatrics. They make it to the end of the machine and Nick comes around in front to stare up at John from beneath the brim of his hat, hands on his hips. John squats at the edge and peers down, thighs apart and hands on his knees.

“You gonna stay with me or did you have plans of your own?” Nick asks.

“Oh.” The word purrs out of John’s mouth, lips spreading in a slow smile and face getting a laser-focused look on it that sends an unexpected jolt through Nick’s chest and down into his stomach. It’s even more predatory than the way he’s crouching over him, ready to spring. “Now you’re inviting me to your room, huh?” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Shameless.”

Before Nick can even begin to scoff at him, he’s slithered off the roof of the bus and landed lightly in front of him, Nick’s hands shooting out automatically to grip his upper arms. “Better get a double; I am so in.”

And then he spins away out of Nick’s light hold and continues along the ramp, heading downward now and putting an annoying extra sway into his steps. Nick stares after him for about three jarred seconds and then exhales loudly and hurries to catch up.

The walls of Goodneighbor tower above them as they finally make it back down to street level. Wooden boards and chain link and metal siding all overlaid with colorful posters and tubes of fiery neon. Strings of smaller yellow lights criss-cross over all of that, suspended from buildings and street lamps, the glow weaker but more homey. Noise from the usual ruckus also rises from beyond the barrier; it’s still morning but they get started early over here. Don’t ever end, maybe. Shouts and talk, music and chanting, the sound of many many footsteps and the rustle of bodies, no gunshots or the thud of fist on flesh yet, but it’ll be there eventually. Just gotta give it time.

“Well, well. What’re you here for?” A bored, harsh voice comes from overtop the door in. It's attached to a boxy-faced, dark-eyed kid, probably about John’s age or a little older, perched on the catwalk with a taped up pipe rifle dangling from one hand.

John touches a quick hand to Nick’s sleeve and steps forward to grin up at the guard. More tooth in it than actual warmth. “What the hell business is that of yours?”

“Man, c’mon I’m just doin’ what they told me to do. Don’t hassle me.” The guard scrubs a hand over his close-cropped hair, and just generally looks done with everything. And if he really is supposed to be guarding anything, he’s doin’ a pretty shoddy job of it. There’s a piece of wall blocking his view of the rest of the street and he’s barely got a few fingers on the stock of his gun. Could drop it at any moment, and from the look of all the dents and dings on it, probably has pretty frequently.

John looks like he has about the same thought and says, “Never figured they’d slot _you_ for actual lookout duty.”

“Yeah, well they did, you asshole.” The hand finally tightens on his gun and the tip moves in a short circle to motion over to Nick. “And who’s this supposed to be? Your babysitter?”

Nick's not sure if it's a good idea to acknowledge the attention or not, but he raises a finger to the brim of his hat by way of greeting anyway. The guy just looks down his nose at him.

“A friend of mine, Finn. You really this hard up for somethin’ to do?”

“Whaddaya mean ‘hard up’? This is what I’m slotted for and it’s been quiet as hell around here. Nothing to shoot at, no new suckers comin’ up, no nothin’.” Finn spits over the edge of the board he’s leaning against and casts a longing eye back behind him. “It’s creepy out here like this.”

“You poor baby.”

“Shut up and just tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ here so I can let you in. Unless you just came to jerk me around. In which case, congratulations, consider me jerked.”

John’s smile lights back up and now it’s more natural, eyes crinkling up along with his cheeks. “Here to see my boy Fred.”

“Fred, huh. Ask him about that batch of X-cell he’s been workin’ on wouldja, been waiting on that.” Finn nods his head toward the door. He finally drags his rifle up into both hands, at least attempting to look like he’s on the clock. “Arright, get in here. Don’t mess around with the scaffolding by the theater and Charlie’s got a discount on that cheap vodka of his if you like. Probably won’t kill ya.”

“Yeah, thanks a million.” And turning back to Nick he says, “Let’s get in there.”

“After you,” Nick waves John on and follows him through the simple blue door into the bright lights and poison allure of Goodneighbor.


	8. Get a Room, You Two

_November 29, 2280 8:00 AM_

 

It’s a city of sensory overload, no doubt. That little metal door opens and the rush of garish sights, sounds, smells (tastes too, if you decide to breathe with your mouth open) all surge up and give you a pretty good whack in the face as a hello.

It’s tough not to outright stare as they pass through the milling crowds and streams of shoppers and wanderers and lookyloos, past the painted storefronts with stacks of merchandise spilling out over the counters, over the torn-up brick streets with the holes filled in with sand and dirt, under the hand-made banners and fragrant clouds of smoke and steam, and past the intermittent eyes of the city's wardens all costumed in snazzy suits and sleek machine guns.

They swing around a corner and walk by a crowd surrounding a street performer doing something highly questionable with a burning sword. A few steps later and Nick leans against John’s shoulder to steer them both out of the path of a staring woman with a heavy chain wrapped around her hand, the other end attached to a huge, black-furred dog with teeth and tongue out on full display. Someone holding a thick, blue book covered in silver charms and beckoning to all passersby from an apartment stoop, the sound of guitar and bells coming from behind them. A knee-high pile of blank-faced dolls made from string and corn husks and the robed lump selling them. A young girl a little further on earnestly trying to teach a fat crow on a leather jess how to say ‘Up yours, Richie’. Endless oddities.

“Well, what’s the move?” John asks.

Nick angles his head over at the big stone building across the somewhat emptier plaza they've turned onto. The fully-intact masonry and bronze detailing let it stand out from the rest of the surrounding structures and it makes Nick wonder how much more impressive it looked when it was new. "Let’s see if the Rexford has anything free. Had a pretty decent stay last time." Good locks on the doors and clean. No need to mess with a good thing.

John tugs Nick to the side of the big doorway as they approach, licking his lips and dropping his voice a little. Not that they could be overheard with any accuracy over the general rumble of noise around them. The glowing sign above the door casts them both in red-orange as they huddle up next to the wall, thumbs hooked into their bag straps. “What’re you _actually_ gonna do now? With the whole… thing, I mean.”

Keep everything completely simple for the time being, that’s the plan. Nothing loud, no complicated nonsense needed until he picks up a new lead or happens to actually spot something. And the longer time goes on, the less likely he is to come out on top with this, so he needs to get started quickly. “Let’s see. Re-familiarize myself with the city layout. Keep my eyes and ears open. See if I can pay a guard or two to keep an eye out for anyone trying to leave town with a kid fitting Luke's description. Have some conversations if I can get anyone to talk to me," Nick says, ticking off each item on his fingers. “Above all of that, though, make sure they actually did come through here. I’m pretty… almost completely sure they did, but it’s not a total certainty.”

“Yeah.” John leans back on the window and taps a thumbnail against a tooth, eyes going distant for a moment. Through the glass, Nick can faintly see the person behind the front desk glance up and shake their head. “Yeah. Actually, you know what would be a better idea than trying the Vic patrol? Daisy. And Kleo at the gun shop might help out too. She’s cool like that. Kleo’d do it for some caps and Daisy just cuz she’s a nice fuckin’ person. They’ve got good vantage points too.”

True, both are prime spots facing the main door in and out of here. Daisy he'd actually spoken with once before and really enjoyed her dry humor, their shared love of books, and the gentle smile that comes out sometimes when she forgets she’s supposed to be a cutthroat huckster. The other name isn’t as familiar but if it’s the gun merchant… Nick raises an eyebrow. “Kleo? The assaultron?”

John grins and holds up a hand. “Whoa, hey, she is a _lady._ You’ll get a lot further with her if you just talk to her like one.” The grin goes a little pointy. “And you wouldn’t believe the kinds of things she’s done to people that conveniently kept forgetting that. It’s kinda inspiring, to be honest.”

Nick’s other eyebrow joins the first one. “Got it.”

“See, more than just a pretty face every so often. Ain’tcha glad I’m around?”

“Yeah, I am,” Nick says with a faint smile. Off-hand comment it may have been, but he is.

The smallest flicker of surprise runs over John’s face before he’s laughing again and turning away. Nick follows his gaze across the street to the quiet, red brick behemoth waiting there as John bumps his hip into Nick’s side. “You might not like this place much, Nick, but I think it’d be smart to get a little better acquainted with it. Make a few friends. If you can look past the shitty leadership and the dickhead enforcers it’s really not too bad. It’s not, y’know, all fuckin’ cleanliness and curfews and background checks like I bet gets you goin’, but it’s not _bad.”_

Nick’s sensible enough to grudgingly (and silently) accept that he’s probably right; about the getting acquainted thing anyway. The jury’s still out on how far John’s good to bad scale stretches. But yeah, he’s right. It’s something he’s already guessed at, how much of a connection these two cities actually have. And if he ends up sticking around for the long haul in Diamond City, getting friendly with its dark counterpart will be a huge advantage. What a thrill.

John jerks his head toward the big red doors next to them and they push off the wall to head in. It’s quieter inside. Still dim, thanks to the lack of natural light outside, but the chandelier overhead and electric flambeaux on the walls fill the lobby with a pleasant yellow glow. The furniture dotted around is all upholstered in reds and creams and it touches Nick as sort of funny that an effort was put into color coordination. It does make the place look more put together though. John brushes his shoulder as Nick shuts the door on the cold air blowing in behind them. 

“Want me to come with when you go?” he asks. “I’m pretty free.”

Nick’s breath catches and little specks of unwanted memories flash in. There’s no real reason to think this will get bigger than it is or turn violent, but maybe that’s just his optimistic side coming out. There’s always a chance. And he doesn’t want John involved if it does.

He knows this is different. Different place, different circumstances, wildly different people; but he doesn’t want the risk. So as cool as he can with that bad taste in the back of his throat, he says, “Thanks, but no. Think I can handle this one.”

John shrugs. “Alright, suit yourself. Well, c’mon, get after it. Grab me a spare key and let’s go check the room and I’ll get outta your hair for a while.”

Nick smiles a tad grimly and continues up to the desk.

It’s Clair working, the same lady who’d rung him up last time still keeping watch over the cavernous lobby; her eyes, small and intense, her short puff of hair neatly trimmed, and strong-looking hands poking out from the sleeves of her sharp suit. Her words are just as sharp, but if you can read between the lines a little she’s pleasant in her own way. As she types Nick into the registry and hands him his set of keys, she tells him he looks underfed (translation: You look a trifle thin, dear, and I’m concerned for your health), to stay away from that bum Marowski if he deigns to show his face around here (translation: The boss is very busy and may not be in an entertaining mood if he makes an appearance), and that Nick’s coat looks scruffy and wrinkled (translation: Please feel free to take advantage of our laundry service, should you choose). He thanks her for the kind thoughts and she waves him off with a reluctant twitch of her cheek and a delayed I’m-watching-you motion towards John.

The room is fine. Opulent even, considering some other alternatives. There’s the big bed with sheets and a thick blanket, a rug stretched out over the floorboards, a couch, two puffy chairs, and a wooden desk and chair pushed up against one of the walls. John gives the place a cursory glance and seems satisfied with it, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking very ready to charge out the door again.

Nick turns from unpacking his bag to see what John’s waiting for. His hand is scratching through his hair and his eyes are bright and expectant, like all he needs is a goodbye for him to break free and be set loose.

“Stay out of trouble out there, alright?” Nick says. He can’t see it, but he knows the knife is tucked away on the back side of John’s right hip within easy reach. If he gets into anything, he’ll definitely be able to dish out something nasty to any would-be attackers. Something of a comfort.

John’s face falls into a sly smile. “Aw, I can’t promise that.” Giving up the manic bouncing for a second, he leans over and pushes his hands down over the mouth of Nick’s bag. “But if you gimme a kiss for luck, maybe I’ll avoid the worst of it.”

It’s impossible to keep doing what he’s doing with John practically straddling the desk corner like he is, but Nick still tries; preferring to nearly spill his pencils all over the floor than to humor him yet. “‘Maybe’? That’s it?”

“I’ll try really hard.”

“You’d better. I don’t wanna be the one to tell Charlie why his brother’s got a few new air holes in him.”

John’s not moving away. Nick finally turns his head and looks down at him, still waiting with his head tilted up and a cocky look on his face. Nick’s not really sure what he expected when he went ahead and got them a room together. Sheesh.

“People don’t tell you ‘no’ very often, do they, kid?” Nick continues, settling a large hand over the junction between John’s shoulder and neck. He strokes his thumb down the front of his throat and feels John swallow against him.

“No,” John murmurs, voice husky and eyes steady on his. “Not for very long, anyway.”

Yeah, definitely a skill he’s seen in action once or twice.

Nick moves his hand to cup John’s chin, drawing him upwards off the desk… and then lays a gentle kiss on the center of his forehead. Lips still resting against skin, he says, “Good luck.” And releases him; continues unpacking without a look back.

There’s a beat and then John’s laughing as he retreats to the door and opens it on the hallway. “That was cheap.”

Nick just shakes his head and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “You gotta be more specific.”

“I’m gonna be specific as _fuck_ from now on. Later, man.” He points a finger in farewell and the door clicks shut.

Once he gets his stuff in order, very briefly tests out the sleeping set-up, and sets foot back out onto the cold pavement, Nick decides he’s feeling pretty good again. Actually being out on the hunt and not in the office always gives him this low, satisfying buzz of energy. The rush of the search, the cajole, the reveal, all of it. No matter how things turn out in the end, he’s doing what he loves and what he’s trained for and that’s a pretty damn nice feeling. Pulling his hat down around his ears, he sets off for the main gate.

 

_ November 29, 2280 12:30 PM _

 

The feeling lasts for a few hours, which are somewhat fruitful, and then he really can’t keep himself going any longer. The very last vestiges of the morning’s coffee fade away, leaving his eyes feeling overlarge and rubbery, mouth dry. He drags himself back to the room and slumps down at the desk with a sigh, alternating staring at the wall with writing in his notebook as time slowly passes. He’s divested himself of the clothes that aren’t his shirt or pants, but doesn’t quite want to give up yet and succumb to the bed. He can still make his stupid hand say a few more things. Just wants to hold on and torture himself a little longer for no reason.

The lamp on the table in front of him starts fuzzing into two ghost lamps, and that’s when a key turns in the lock and Nick turns his head to stare blearily at the ghost door instead. John steps in; bare-armed, cigarette tucked behind one ear, and looking irritatingly awake.

“Oh, hey, you’re— Whoa,” he says, pausing and pushing the door closed with a foot. “If I didn't know better I’d say you were on a serious bender right now. You alright?”

A yawn he can’t keep down cracks across Nick’s face and he nods, eyes closing for a second and hand coming up to cover his mouth. He stretches after and lets his body relax and sprawl out over the chair, spine pulled long and feet jammed against the wall’s baseboard. Wants to, but can’t really hide it. He’s beat. “Mmhm.”

John hops up on the desktop and crowds Nick’s legs out of the way. “So, how’d it go out there? Detect anything?”

Nick laces his fingers together across his stomach as he draws in a deep breath and releases it in a low grumble. How _did_ it go? Good enough. Nothing really concrete, but nothing disastrous either; that’s something to be thankful for.

“Well, I took your advice and went over to see Kleo and Daisy.”

“Uh huh?”

“And got results. Good call on that, thank you.” John winks. “Kleo, funnily enough, saw what I’m about ninety percent sure was Vy and Luke two nights ago. Tall, dark-haired woman carrying a big bundle wrapped in a blanket. Only noticed anything strange because she bent forward to adjust something and the blanket slipped free and she reacted extremely strongly. Snatched it back up like she was trying to hide something. The something being an unconscious young boy that didn’t look like her.

“So, they did come here. And are likely _still_ here somewhere. Neither Daisy nor Kleo recall seeing either of them leave. Now they’re both keeping an active eye out to make sure they still don’t.”

Daisy had been all concentration and concerned looks when he’d asked her, very accommodating and quick to reassure him that the second she saw anything she’d send someone up to get him. And for a small fee, Kleo had agreed as well, though in a slightly different style. ‘Don’t worry, baby. If I see her, she won’t be walking away from it,’ was what she’d said, a tiny blip of blinding red light flashing from her optics. And holy mother of god, that had been chilling to be standing right in front of. But her... _determination_ had helped put his mind at ease a bit, if nothing else.

“After that I did a little scouting around myself. Saw a lot of weird stuff, but not what I was lookin’ for. Talked to a few people, got a lot of ‘Who wants to know’s and, well, less-polite brush offs. It’s tough to find someone if they’re not out in the open walkin’ around here since you’ve gotta ask. And it looks like Goodneighbor protects its own, old hands and newcomers alike. Their business, anyway. Guess I kinda admire the loyalty but it sure makes my job difficult.” Another yawn. “And then I just wasn’t getting anything done out there, so I came back, and I’m still trying to finish this up.” Nick waves a hand at his notes and picks up his watch to look at the time. It’s already past noon. “Since… hm. Little longer than I thought, but…”

“You should probably sleep, bud.”

“Can’t, I’m still…”

John ignores him. “Y’know why?” He picks up the open notebook and flaps it at Nick. “This doesn’t even say anything. It says, ‘Suspect sighted tnu nijkts pnion. Gwrstonn owniv…’ and then the rest is just squiggly lines and I think you’ve drawn a boat or somethin’ in the middle here.”

Nick sits back up and takes the book from him. “Oh, Jesus.” He’s right. Or maybe it’s a dolphin.

His brows furrow together and he wipes a palm backwards across his mouth, letting it end up cradling the side of his neck. “I’m not even that damn tired,” he groans, sullen and lying but still willing it to be true as John just laughs and slides off the desk, disappearing behind him. Feels like grabbing a big handful of his own hair and twisting it. Maybe that’ll wake him up. Instead he stares hard at the page as if glaring at it will magically decipher the chicken scratch laid therein. And then looks around when John sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Not to tell you how to do your job, but I think you might be a little too out of it to get anything done right now.” Nick’s other shoulder is then occupied with John’s elbow as he sort of drapes himself across Nick’s back, face laid close enough to his that he can hear the faint whisper of breath in John’s throat, feel his curls crush up against the side of his head. Unwanted nerves ripples through him and he tries to fight them back down; lets himself settle under John’s slight weight and raises a hand to rest it on his arm. “Y’know what always helps me relax?”

Given who’s asking, it’s easy enough to guess. “I can think of two things, right off the bat. And it doesn’t seem like you’re about to offer me a hit of something.”

John giggles, grazing his teeth over Nick’s ear. “Hey, you’re pretty good. I’d hire you.”

“Aim to please,” Nick says, but he can’t help how his back tenses up again when John’s hand slips through the open neck of his shirt and down his chest. And of course John notices, he’s practically wearing the kid like a shawl. Thankfully, he sounds more amused about it than anything.

“Still scared of a guy touching your dick, huh. Will it make it easier if I put on a dress?” And now he’s grinning, Nick can feel his cheek shift through the press of his hair. “Oh, _I_ know,” he says, like he can’t believe he hasn’t thought of it before. “I can grow my hair out real long and wear lipstick. Eyeshadow and falsies?”

Hilarious. “Y’know, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll get you some heels too, and how’s your falsetto?”

John laughs. “You think I won’t, huh? Why don’t you put that book down.”

He does, not even realizing he was still holding it. Thumb pressed into it so hard he almost put a crease through it. Closes it and shoves it away. “I think you’d do it just for fun, nothin’ to do with me.”

John turns his head in and just barely kisses his neck, runs his fingers over Nick’s jaw to bring him closer. His eyes stutter closed and he can feel himself start to slowly twitch to life, heat flushing through his face and down the thick planes of his torso.

“Don’t try me,” John warns, mock serious. He’s now one-handedly opening Nick’s slacks, using a snapping motion with his thumb to push the cloth around the button. Cute trick. “If that’s what I need to do for you to stop giving me that someone-just-stubbed-their-cigar-out-on-my-arm-and-I’m-trying-to-power-through-it look when I touch you, then I’ll fuckin’ do it.”

Nick’s caught between a wince and a blissful groan as John touches skin and lets his head sink back against John’s shoulder. “Do I really?”

“Okay, it’s not _that_ bad. Maybe something smaller; a cigarette?”

Despite himself, Nick laughs. And then laughs again when he thinks about what the hell’s going on right now. On a job in this horrible city, sitting at a desk with a page of useless scribbles in front of him, and his guide, who happens to be very young and very male, with his hand stuck down Nick’s pants with the intent of getting him to drop off and get a few hours of sleep. While threatening him with dressing in drag. Tone even again for the moment, he says, “I bet you’d look fantastic in any kind of dress, but no, please don’t.”

“Sure? Get me into something with sequins and you will be stunned, I promise.”

He’s free, but John’s still just fooling around with him, loose fist turning into the lightest drag of fingertips up his shaft, thumb smearing pre-come over the head. It feels good but it’s also the sort of barely-there touch that enrages just as much as it arouses.

“John, for god’s sake would you please—”

And then there’s the needed pressure, a few tight strokes before John licks his palm and digs his face into Nick’s neck again. Kisses him with wet lips and warm tongue and slicks his hand over him faster, laughing meanly. “Just makin’ sure you really want it this time,” John says, voice a low purr.

Nick doesn’t have anything to say to that, just closes his eyes and breathes harder and faster with John’s strokes. He spreads his legs apart as far as his pants will allow, rolls his hips up into John’s grasp, wonders what he did for this curse of a blessing (other way around?) to befall him. _Why me?_ he thinks, and then finds he really doesn’t care all that much as his skin burns and he clenches his hand hard around the wiry arm that’s still draped loosely over his chest. The angle has to be awkward for John, but he doesn’t move, content to stroke Nick with long, twisting movements and whisper little encouragements to him, cheek to cheek.

“C’mere, kiss me,” John murmurs, minutes later when Nicks breath goes shorter and his whole body’s coiling like a spring. Nick would probably do anything the kid asked him for at this moment. He turns his head, tilts back and John’s lips are covering his. He sinks in deep, tasting like this damned city; mayhem and secrets and delicious filth. When Nick comes, it’s with him gasping into John’s mouth. His beautiful, obscene mouth that pulls into a grin, Nick’s lips sliding against teeth.

When he finally recovers enough to move again, after John’s untangled himself from their interwoven arms and angles, it’s to take the scrap of cloth John’s holding out. He wipes himself off, unable to really mind that he’s not entirely clean, and lets himself be pulled up out of the chair and over to the bed, upon which he gratefully collapses. He doesn’t know if he’d call that _relaxing_ exactly, more just draining.

John squats down right next to him on the floor, perpetually sleepy-looking eyes trained on his and hair shook back out of his face. He looks like a lion like this. Crouched and watchful and ready to tear a person to pieces if it needs doing. “Not freakin’ out this time, are you?”

“I don’t think I have the energy for a freak out,” Nick says, face crushed comfortably against the pillow. No energy, and less of a reason for it this time, he thinks. He’s a nobody here, and why would anyone in Goodneighbor give the two of them a second look with the circus of everything else around? “And ‘m still sorry that happened. I’m just,” he laughs, a soft puff of air from his lips, “just old. Set in my ways. And you’re something new to me. An anomaly.”

One of John’s eyebrows tilts up. “A sexy anomaly, right?”

Nick groans and rolls onto his back; lays an arm over his eyes to block out the light around them and the cheeky look John’s levering at him. “A sexy, digging for compliments anomaly, yes. Yes indeed.”

An agreeable silence falls between them. He’s almost gone ahead and drifted off when John says something that drags his arm up and snaps his eyes back open in a frown.

“I could go look while you sleep.”

John hasn’t moved, still sitting on his haunches next to the bed at eye-level. He’s untucked the cig from behind his ear and is lazily twirling it between his fingers.

“I don’t wanna ask you to do that,” Nick says. It’s an automatic reaction, the cold fear threading through him. He knows John can take care of himself. And in this city, likely a lot better than Nick himself can. Knows the people, the social weather, and how to blend in and not be noticed. If he’s just looking, nothing bad will happen. Should happen.

“You’re _not_ asking though; I’m offering.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Nick. C’mon, it’s not a problem. Lemme help. Tell me what she looks like and I’ll keep an eye out. That’s all you were doin’ out there in the end, right?”

Well. Yeah.

_Shit._

So he tells him, John nodding along as he talks, and Nick’s eyes steadily falling closed. Relays all the details Don had had on Vy’s looks and habits, hoping that she’s still here and hasn’t picked now of all times to move the two of them on somewhere else. Or even worse, part ways. Unlikely, but possible. “And come get me _as soon_ as you see something, alright? _If_ you do,” Nick says when he’s finished. Forces his eyes open to make sure John’s listening. “Don’t do the hero thing, that never turns out well.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it, kid.” He can’t quite manage forceful with his brain eighty percent off but he makes the attempt.

“I _know,_ fuckin’ chill,” John snarls. “Won’t talk to any strangers. Won’t take any candy. I know.” He sounds annoyed. Hopefully that means he’s taking this seriously.

“I just don’t want you to...”

 _Get hurt,_ is how he means to finish the sentence, but he can’t tell if he actually says it or not before he falls asleep.


	9. Jinkies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed I frequently end chapters or even whole stories with someone falling asleep. But it makes so much sense, sleep is like real life's little dividers.

_ November 29, 2280 5:30 PM _

 

“Nick.”

 _“Hey._ Nicky.”

Quieter. “Fuck this.”

And then he’s being roughly shaken awake. Nick mumbles and opens his eyes on a darkened room with an unfamiliar ceiling. Turns his head and there’s a pale blur of what could be a face hovering at the side of the bed. He jerks and his hand shoots out and grabs hard onto a sleeve still cold and stiff from outside.

“Hey! Hey, it’s me, cool it,” comes the beer-scented yelp in response.

A few blinks and the face resolves itself back into something that makes sense instead of just being interconnected, blurry shapes. Nick sucks in a rattly breath and comes back to the present. He’s in Goodneighbor, in the corner room on the second floor of the Rexford, curled up under strange blankets and minus most of his clothes.

“John.”

“Yeah.” John sniffs and pushes off Nick’s shoulder, jostling him as he stands back up. “Now c’mon, rise and shine, buttercup. We might have a positive ID over on the east side of town so get your ass up and let’s see if my spymaster skills are worth a shit.”

Nick’s on his feet in an instant, buttoning his shirt and hunting for his socks as John snaps the light on for him and waits against the door, fidgeting with one of his earrings.

“Yeah? Go on, what’d ya see?”

“Well, I was at a bar and just happened to see this lady who looked _real_ freakin’ similar to what you told me so I thought I’d give her a quick follow just for funsies, see if she was gettin’ up to anything good,” John says as he tracks Nick drifting around the room gathering up his effects. “She went back there to the row of old, old storage buildings over back behind the theater, which is weird. They’re the off-limits ones nobody uses anymore and no one’s supposed to touch cuz they’re so fuckin’ decrepit.” He frowns a little and starts chewing on a thumbnail. “Tried to keep up with her again when she came out and I lost her in the damn market.”

Nick doesn’t know if that’s good news, but at least it’s news. A shuffle closer to answers, or maybe a whole leap depending on what they find over there. False alarm, maybe, but if those warehouses are as restricted as they sound, this might be something.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Nick says, looping his tie around his neck and knotting and cinching it as quickly as he can get away with.

The fidgeting pauses. “Sure. Said I would, didn’t I?”

Kid’s one of the rare people who like to keep their promises. Good to know.

Nick shrugs his coat on, tightens a loose strap on his holster, and points at the door. “Alright, let’s go. _Casually,”_ he clarifies. “Don’t wanna spook anyone.”

Which might be tough to pull off, he thinks as they leave and John locks up. Nick can feel the nervous energy pouring off the kid as they stride down the hall, steps in sync. He’s got his own minor jitters, but it’s nothing compared to the small electrical storm John’s emitting. He shakes out his arms and blows a breath out. Ready or not, here they go.

Nick pushes the hotel doors open and they’re back out on the sidewalk. It’s actually brighter now compared to when he went on his own look-around and there aren’t nearly as many people out. Sunset. The sky is violently pinkish-orange where it shows through underneath the scraps of dark clouds finally moving on. John takes the lead and Nick keeps pace with him as they head down the street.

“Slow down a little. And don’t walk directly there,” Nick mutters.

And he does, after shooting Nick a look that says _Why? Aren’t we in a hurry?_

It’d be a bad idea to get into this all twitchy and amped up to eleven, and beyond that, there’s no telling who’s watching right now. Nick digs through a pocket. “Piece of gum?" he asks. John’s still sneaking him baffled looks as he takes it and peels the wrap off. "So, where’d you go for your drinks?"

It takes him a second, but he starts talking after a few more steps. “Uh. I caught Finn as he was coming off shift. Brought him over to the Third Rail and had a few.”

“That surly kid from the gate? Didn’t think you liked him.”

John steers them away to the right and they pass under a few tented overhangs from the market stalls lining the street. No one’s giving them a second glance, and many not even a first. That’s good. “I, yeah… I mean he’s okay, I was just giving him a hard time. You do have to take him in small doses though.”

“Guess some alcohol would help with that too.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess it does.”

“I’ve never actually been in there, the Third Rail. Beer any better than what they have at the Dugout?”

John laughs, finally seeming to relax a little. He hangs a hand over Nick’s shoulder to keep with him as they skirt around displays and groups standing and talking. “Man, _anything’s_ better than that. Jeez, might as well drink out of the toilet.” The amount of people around starts to thin out as they head back and angle toward the theater. The big marquee out front is partially covered with drop cloths and a big framework of metal bars and wood platforms. “You should stop in sometime, say hey to the bartender. Tell me what you think of him.”

“Yeah?”

“Of the two Charlies I know, he’s my favorite.”

“Interesting guy?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” John grins and beckons him around the edge of the scaffolding and they press forward into a slim alleyway behind it, just big brick walls and piles of insulation and broken stone lining the footpath. Now they’re really alone, steps echoing quietly down the narrow valley they’re in. If they were gonna get jumped, this would be a fantastic spot for it; maneuverability’s at about a zero in here. Nick puts a hand on the butt of his gun, just for sanity’s sake.

“How you doin’? Okay?” he asks, quiet again. Over the course of the meander over here, their energy levels seem to have equalized into acceptable territory. John’s back down from critical mass and Nick’s got a little more of a gallop in his heart. Kinda wishes he’d brought another stick of gum.

“Yeah? Feel pretty good. Here, hang on.” John stops at the corner they’ve come to and leans around it, then raises a hand and points. “There. That last door on this side.”

It looks completely unremarkable among the row of buildings surrounding it. Tallish, brick and steel building with boarded-up windows and a healthy amount of graffiti and stains on its lower five feet of wall. The door looks boarded-up as well, but there’s a slightly cleaner stretch of pavement right in front of it with less dust and garbage on it and what looks like a smeared footprint or two. Someone’s been around recently enough. No ground level windows to peek through, so it looks like it’s gonna be a crapshoot on what’s on the other side. Not ideal, but it is what it is.

“Saw her go in,” John continues, “Waited right here and watched her come back out in the reflection on this window back here. Then I moved and couldn’t keep up. Somehow. Wonder where she went.”

“Wonder where she is _now,”_ Nick muses.

“Yeah.”

“And no one’s supposed to be back here?”

“Nope.”

So it’s not only forbidden to the general public, making whoever John saw go in mighty suspicious, it’s also a good place to keep any unscrupulous activities hidden; tucked back away from most foot traffic and any chance eyes or ears. Smart.

And funny how a set of circumstances can make a little stretch of sidewalk look so intimidating. But the time is now. The coast is as clear as it’s gonna get. This is it.

Nick pulls on John’s shoulder and brings him back around the corner with him.

“John, you should stay out here and keep—”

The reaction is immediate. John pulls out of Nick’s grip and his face wrinkles up into something confused and affronted. “What? No. Fuck no.”

“Now look, there might be trouble in there and I don’t know if—”

He's interrupted again, and now there's a flare of anger in John’s eyes if the hiss in his voice isn’t enough to sell it. “Uh. One: yeah, no shit. Two: I’m gonna be in trouble anyway if I get seen back here. Three: fuck you,” here he jabs Nick in the chest, _“I_ tracked her here and you don’t want me to go in? And _four:”_ now two jabs, “double fuck you, Mr. Don’t Do the Hero Thing. You wanna walk right into a dark fuckin’ forbidden warehouse with no backup?”

 _Damn, he’s good,_ Nick thinks, annoyed and feeling a prickle of sweat under his skin as he looks back behind them. Still empty. _And he’s right._ He’s only able to partially prevent the smile that wants to break out as he turns back to John. “Alright. Okay. Sorry for suggesting it. But stay behind me. No idea what we’re walkin’ into.”

"Fucker," John says in an undertone. But he says it through an answering smile and quickly falls into step behind Nick as they make their approach.

Nick puts a hand to the dirty brass handle of the warehouse door and glances over his shoulder where John's waiting, face serious again and eyes ready. "Gonna play this quiet if possible. Let’s get in there, take a good look around, and then figure out what we’re gonna do.” John nods. Nick pushes down the latch and gives the door an experimental jiggle. It opens inward, pulling away from the boards nailed across the frame. There’s enough space for a good-sized adult to duck down and step over the lowest one, so he does, gun tucked into the hollow of his shoulder as he straightens back up.

"You didn't bring one of those flashlights, did you?" he whispers to John. It's not dark enough to not be able to see, but well-lit this place ain't.

"Shit... No."

Yeah, he hadn’t thought to bring one either. “Oh well. Get in here and close the door. Don’t need to invite anyone else to the party.”

It’s empty as he pans around. Boxes and crates and metal drums that haven’t seen the delicate touch of a duster or cleaning cloth in what looks like decades line the walls, but besides that, it’s all wooden floors, support beams, and cobwebs. There’s a dividing wall that creates a second room off to the left and beyond that, the concrete lip of a stairway up. The other room turns out empty as well, just housing a broken table and more crates. Hopefully the other floor or floors are more rewarding. If not, this is gonna be a bust and they’ll be back to square one.

“Move on up?” John asks.

“Yeah, nothin’ here.”

There is something on the second floor. Not at all what he expects, but there is something. It’s standing over in the corner, but for the briefest moment he can't figure out what the hell he's looking at. A shamble of metal, tubing, cables, and long gangly limbs. It’s not ‘til it moves, jerking around to see them advance up the stairs that Nick sees it’s a humanoid… _thing_ with bared teeth and staring eyes and claw-tipped hands and feet. Looks like if someone decided to build a man out of spare plumbing parts and car guts; a creature out of a nightmare. A cold blanket of razor-edged focus drops over Nick as it looks at them and speaks a single word in a fuzzy, computerized voice:

“Engaging.”

He’s not really sure where it's vulnerable, if anywhere, and there’s too little time to give it any thought; he just goes for center mass. Nick throws an arm out and takes a step to move in front of John, and hears him breathe out ‘Oh, f—’ before he’s firing. Two explosively loud shots to the thing’s chest into an object that sort of looks like a heart or a fuel reservoir, and a final round to the head as it staggers back from the force of the slugs. It utters a crackly coughing sound and clatters to the floor, one hand still flexing open and closed until it completely stills a moment later.

There’s movement above them. The tread of heavy, clicking feet and more of that same hideous, atonal speech. Nick whirls around to John and grabs his arm, pulling at him as he starts moving.

“Downstairs. Now.”

They retreat and move out of the stairwell, waiting by the wall and listening. The footsteps, two pairs of them, have made it down to the second floor. Not running, but they move quick. Not enough time for a reload, so he’s gotta make these last three count. “Just what in the damn hell are these things,” he mutters, skin still crawling.

“Synths,” John supplies from behind him.

 _“That’s_ a synth?”

But there’s no time to hear more about them before they’re thumping down the ground floor stairs. Nick backs up and trains his sights on where they’ll step out.

The first one falls when he catches it dead center in the head. Its partner charges in, stepping over the body and gets a neat, apparently useless, little hole torn into its upper skull. It’s still advancing and his last bullet, the killing shot, goes wide, completely missing and punching a hole in the wall. His stomach drops and he curses.

Nick’s about to drop his gun and run at the thing before it remembers to fire the strange rifle in its skeletal hands, but John beats him to it. He launches past Nick and bowls the thing over, crashing them both to the floor. He knocks the rifle away from it and goes for the head before it can do much more than yowl weakly and shove at him. Grabs it by the jaw and the side of its skull and with a strained grunt just wrenches as hard as he can. Which seems to be pretty damned hard. With a sputter of electricity arcing out of the severed neck wires, he tears the thing’s head off and is left with it cradled in his hands. He drops it with a look of disgust and stands back up, scrambling away from the twitching corpse, back heaving.

Nick lays a hand on his shoulder and John snaps around. Breathing hard and there’s a savage look on his face, but he doesn’t look hurt. Christ that coulda been bad. Leftover panic has Nick touching a hand to John’s temple and the other to his cheek, tilting his head in an unconscious, gentle parody of what he just did to that synth. His skin is hot and damp and the way his lips are parted give Nick a wild urge to kiss him. But this isn’t at all the time and he drops his hands down, still looking at John but keeping about twenty percent of his attention on the stairwell.

“You alright?”

He nods, a smile rising to replace the scary look. Only problem is when the two meet he looks a bit insane. “Yeah, you?”

“Little embarrassed I whiffed that last shot, but yeah. That was…” _Startling,_ he thinks. _Jesus, the kid’s a beast._ “...impressive,” he says. “Thanks.”

“You got it, man. Good thing you had that backup, eh,” he says with what might possibly be mistaken for a smug look. Then he claps a hand against Nick’s arm. “Still wanna keep goin’ after that kind of welcome?”

“Well, third floor’s the charm. That’s what they say, isn’t it?”

John rolls his eyes and pretends to laughs. Nick jerks his head toward the upstairs and starts back up, tipping his empty casings into one pocket and replenishing from the other. Feels a lot better when the cylinder’s rolled back into place.

“Now the question is: what on earth are synths doing in here?”

“Eh— Huh.” John frowns and rolls his tongue around the inside of his cheek.

“Were they already here when you saw our perp come in?” Nick wonders aloud. “If _not,_ why are they now and if they _were…_ why didn’t they attack her?” The implications of either one are disturbing. “Hold up.”

The third level looks much like the first and second (thankfully empty of any more of those metal monstrosities) but there’s a big double door ahead of them. Chained and padlocked shut and pretty sturdy looking, maybe used to be a supervisor’s office or something similar. If the last two synths were up here, it’s likely they were guarding this while the one downstairs was playing lookout.

“Mm mm, lookie at this. Did you bring your picks? Cuz I sure didn’t,” John says. His tone is light, but Nick can hear the strain under it. He can relate.

“Nope,” Nick answers, thumbing back the hammer on the revolver. “Guess we’ll have to get this open the _really_ low tech way.” He beckons John over to him. “Be ready.”

“Yeah, for what?”

Nick shrugs and stands next to the door, aiming over so he doesn’t hit anything inside. He fires, and the body of the lock jumps. Immediately after, he hears a muffled sound from inside the room and then more silence. He knocks the hasp of the lock loose and tugs the broken mess off the doors. John stretches out a hand for one knob and Nick takes the other. Exchanging a look, they twist and pull the doors wide open.


	10. John and Nick to the Goddamn Rescue

_ November 29, 2280 6:20 PM _

 

“Oh, what the _fuck.”_

Nick says nothing, but he heartily agrees with the sentiment.

He’d been expecting something like this, but actually seeing it in front of him in the same room really brings it home. Turns it solid and ugly again. There’s a few dirty mattresses on the floor, and more pushed up against the walls. A covered metal pail, empty plastic bottles, what might be a pile of blankets or tarps. And from the wall sprouts a series of metal plates with chains and shackles attached. Not even handcuffs. Actual, medieval-style shackles. And attached to those shackles, a small boy and a teenage girl.

The boy is asleep, or probably knocked out since he didn’t come out of it from the nearby gunshot, but the girl is very awake and very terrified. As soon as the door opens she kicks back with her feet, trying to move away from it while also positioning herself in front of the boy beside her like she’s trying to shield him. Brave kid.

Without a doubt, the sleeping boy is Luke and that’s a huge load off. Curly black hair like his dad, same nose, the burn scar on his arm from running into a hotplate when he was three. The girl though, he has no idea who she is. She’s got short brown hair cut into a bob, wide, earnest eyes, and she’s skinny as a stick. The two of them are only alike in that they’re both chained to the wall and both have wide strips of duct tape over their mouths. Nick gets that sick dig in the pit of his stomach again; mostly just cuz of how obvious the set-up here is. They’re being held here like livestock until it’s time for them to be sold off.

He tucks his gun away and turns back to John who’s still staring from the doorway in dismay. He shouldn’t be here.

“John.”

His eyes tick up onto Nick’s, seeming relieved to be looking at anything else.

“Do me a favor and go keep an eye out downstairs. If anyone comes in I don’t want them surprising us. And we’ve made quite a bit of racket in here already, anyone might’ve heard. Come right back up if you see or hear anything.”

“Yeah. Sure.” John licks his lips and backs out, entire body stiff. Nick hears his steps fade away and hopes he’s not taking this too hard. This is a hell of a thing to walk into.

But that’s what Nick’s here for. He can’t fix the damage already done but getting this operation shut down is _something._ One more tiny flame against the shadow lurking all around them with its spindly, reaching arms.

Okay.

Nick turns back to the kids and takes a step toward them, but stops as the girl moves. She drops to a seated position and pulls her legs up, eyes now more angry than afraid. Her breath is hard and whining with the silver-grey gag of tape and she looks prepared to do as much damage with her feet as she can if Nick comes into range.

Cripes, of course. He holds up his hands, palms out and waits where he is. Trying to be soothing isn’t something he’s good at, and honestly, sometimes it just makes things worse. Makes people think you’re trying to pull one over on them. Better to be straightforward and plain. “My name’s Nick Valentine. I’m a detective from Diamond City and I’m here to get you both out of here.”

She stares at him. Looks at the boy behind her and back at Nick.

“Yeah, I’m here because of him, his dad hired me,” Nick says. He tries a small smile. “But I guess I can do a two for one special today. Promise I’m not here to hurt either of you. Can I come closer?”

After just a second or two of thought, she gives up the defensive posture and nods her head with a loud breath out, anger vanishing and her eyebrows pulling up in the middle like she’s fighting tears. If he never sees something like this again, it’ll still be too soon. Fat chance of that though, unless he goes and hangs up his fedora tomorrow.

He walks to the edge of the mattress they're both on and kneels down in front of them, wrinkling his nose at the smell of it and the layers and layers of stains on it, the dark, brownish maroon of long-dried blood among them. And just like that he's furious again. How long has this been going on? How many other scared to death kids have lain here where they are now?

_Put it in the back. Keep your cool._

“I’m gonna get this tape off you, alright?”

She nods much more vigorously and turns her head so he can see the edge of it along her cheek. Nick carefully peels up the end and grimaces. “This’ll probably sting. Breakin’ my promise already,” he says, and tears it away as efficiently as he can.

She gasps and presses her lips together, squinting her eyes shut as tears well up and the heretofore covered skin turns a bright red. “Ow. Thank you,” she croaks out.

“Not a problem. What’s your name, kiddo?”

“It’s El—” she coughs and almost retches. “Eleanor.”

“Wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s nice to meet you, Eleanor.”

She makes a noise that might be a laugh if her face didn’t look so miserable. “Nice to meet you too.”

Brave _and_ polite. He leans around and looks at the big metal sleeves holding them captive. Short of something incredibly destructive, there’s no getting out of those things without opening the lock properly. “I somehow doubt it, but do you know if there’s any keys in this dump so I can get you guys loose?” Besides this little corner, the room’s as empty as the rest of the building. Shame there’s no nail on the wall with the keyring on it. Then again, this ain’t exactly a comic book.

Eleanor shakes her head. “I don’t know, don’t think so. I haven’t seen anything. I woke up like this and _he,”_ she nods at Luke, “was already here.”

“Yeah. Didn’t expect it. Well, don’t worry, okay? Think we can figure something out.” Nick shifts forward and takes a closer look at where the chains are bolted to the wall. Gives one a good hard pull and is very unsurprised when nothing happens. Might end up having to send John out to find a few crowbars so they can work on prising the plates loose. And then see if Kleo can get her claws on a plasma cutter for the rest of it.

Depending on how this goes he might even have to set up an in-house stakeout here; Vy’s gotta come back sometime, she wouldn’t go to all this trouble and then just leave the goods behind. Though if they’ve somehow showed their hand by making too much noise already and scared her off this place, she might’ve just given this up as a lost cause and escaped. Not what he’s hoping for, but if that does turn out to be the case, he’ll happily settle for just getting the kids out of here safely.

With his eyes he traces the other set of chains back down to Luke’s still curled-up shape and frowns. “Is he… alright? Sure can sleep through a lot.” Nick lays the back of his hand close to Luke’s nose, then touches two fingers to the dip under his jaw. Breathing fine and pulse good and strong.

“The woman that was here has something that can knock you out. That’s how I got here anyway.” Her eyes well up again, voice catching. “I… I know I wasn’t supposed to be back in the alley, but I wasn’t _doing_ anything, just looking around. Then I heard someone walk up behind me and then… just nothing. Black. And then I was _here,_ and I don’t know where _here is_ and… Oh my god, I don’t even know how long it’s been; my parents are gonna kill me.”

“Hey, at least we’ll get you home for them to kill, right?” Nick says with a smile. She nods slowly then laughs, watery and weak, but it’s something. “There you go. We’ll get you outta here as soon as we can. And we’re in Goodneighbor, third floor of one of the old warehouses. You from around here or is your family visiting?”

She looks a little relieved at that. “Here. Yeah. My mom works at the food cart with the red canopy by the state house.” The look on her face lasts until she tries to pull one of her arms forward and is met with the clink of chains.

Nick sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. This is horrible. About time to go downstairs and talk with John about this, see what they can scrounge up to break these kids out of here already. “Can I do anything for you right now? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

Eleanor shudders and leans down to scratch her cheek against one of her knees. “No,” she says. “I just wanna go home.”

“I know it, I’m real sorry this even happ—”

There’s a sound from below and the two of them, like they’re being pulled by the same string, straighten up and turn their heads toward it. A thump and then indistinct shouting.

That wasn’t the plan.

As he jumps to his feet he barely hears Eleanor squeak, “Be careful!”

Nick’s out the door and taking the stairs down two at a time until the scuffling noises turn into a pained yell and he hears John almost screaming, “Nick!” Then he vaults down by threes, heart in his throat and colliding against the stairwell walls and shoving off them to go faster. He hits the ground floor in about fifteen seconds from the initial noise and sees John squaring up with the lady that’s been haunting his thoughts for almost a full spin of the planet now. She looks like a cornered animal, holding a baton or short club out in front of her and leaning heavily against the wall to her back.

Nick yanks out his revolver and pounds across the floor at them. The woman looks up in alarm as she notices him and that’s all the opening John needs to knock her hand away and nail her in the chin with a perfectly-placed right hook. It’s not a knock-out, but she slumps awkwardly to the floor in a dazed heap, groaning and flailing her hands downward as her legs give out.

John glances around at Nick as he comes to a stop and nods to him, the both of them panting.

“I’m fine,” he preempts as Nick looks him up and down. He’s not fine. He’s white-faced, holding his ribs, and Nick can’t see for the jacket sleeve covering it but it looks like there’s something wrong with the angle of his left wrist. But he _is_ standing and looks steady so it’ll have to take a backseat for now. Nick suffers another serious pang of regret, wishing again that he hadn’t brought him along for this. John’s never gonna blame him for it, so he’ll just blame himself twice as hard. But later.

John turns his attention back to the woman and Nick follows his gaze to look down at her. One long leg sprawled out and head tipped forward, nodding around sluggishly at nothing. “She surprised me when she came in but I stomped her ankle and broke it I think.” So no foot races in her near future, that’s good. John goes on and gestures at her hand where it’s still clenched tightly around the baton. “And get that thing away from her before she zaps you with it. Shit hurts.”

It takes them a few moments to disarm her. Nick whips off his tie to use as a makeshift binding, tightly knotting her hands together at her back. Last time he goes anywhere without a pair of cuffs. The time you don’t have them always, by some unfortunate twist of fate, manages to be the same time you need them. She stares at them as they do it, eyes rolling wild and body still lurching aimlessly as she struggles to call her faculties back together. The stun stick is taken away, two very slim, very fine blades shaken out from where they’re threaded into one sleeve, a bottle of some clear liquid removed from a pocket that for sure isn’t water, and a short barrelled 10mm untucked from her belt.

John keeps the pistol trained on her with his good hand as Nick stands up and does the same with his own piece. They wait like that as Vy shakes off the impact and comes back to herself. Nick glances at John and gives him a look that he hopes is clear enough. _Just wait._

It’s an odd feeling, seeing her now. Chasing after a nebulous concept of a person, a second-hand description, and then you finally get to see them in the flesh, watch them move; there’s a weird sense of doubling and resolution as the reality merges with the assumptions. And as her face tips up, he can see why Donnie was so quick to fall for her. She’s stunningly beautiful.

Too bad she’s also a disgusting monster.

“What… what are you doing? What the hell do you want!? If you’re here to rob me just take my damn caps and let me go!” Hair hangs in her face, her lip is quivering, voice quaking, and a tear rolls down one cheek. Her entire body looks like it’s cringing away from them into the wall and her eyes are huge and frightened.

Oh, for god’s sake. “Cut it. We know what you’re doing here, saw the arrangement upstairs.”

The mask of fear and pain drops away and it’s like a switch being flicked. She stills and eyes them both, gaze hardened up and looking all business with the wet shine of faked tears on her face. And now, instead of high and fluttery with panic, her voice is slow and even, like she’s got all the time in the world to say what she’s gonna say. “So you’ve seen. And you dispatched my guards.” Even staring down the barrels of two guns, she sighs like this is all just a minor annoyance. “What would I need to give you to get out of this with my life? Hm?”

John makes a confused noise and Nick just looks at her, also thrown off-balance by the unexpected shift here. Straight from tears to dead-eyed bargaining at the drop of a hat. He lowers his gun a touch and schools his features thoughtful, like he might be the kind of opportunistic scumbag who could be bribed into looking the other way on this. Like he’s not just quietly seething with rage as he looks at her and thinks about what she’s done.

And there’s no way to communicate what he’s after to John without Vy hearing it too. Damn, he’s so unprepared for the two of them being here like this. They should’ve worked out a quick code or some signals beforehand… anything. Just have to wing it at this point.

“Half my profits from today’s exchange?” she ventures. “It’s a good amount; the Institute is generous. I just have to signal my contact and the payment’ll be here. Easy and quick.”

The Institute. Of course. The synths _(‘my guards’)_ belong to them, so why wouldn’t she? The biggest unknown in the Commonwealth and this child-stealer has an in with them. He’s heard about all the other every-once-in-a-while kidnappings, and here’s a new piece to that puzzle. They take kids too. Why? Why _any_ of it, really. But this needs to be eased into.

“Yeah? There good money in this sort of thing?”

“Good enough that if it wasn’t me here, it would be someone else.  And it’s easy. Most times.” _Relaxed enough to brag about this,_ he thinks. _Unreal._ “Find those single parents out there, show some interest, get what I need from them, turn over the goods, get paid, top up the facial surgery, repeat when called for. It’s not bad work if you’ve got the skills for it.”

And now, she dares to wink at him. Like they’re already friends and an agreement between them is a foregone conclusion. Anyone who does this kind of thing for a living has got to have a few screws loose already, but her calm is giving Nick the creeps.

He forces an interested look onto his face anyway. If he can keep her talking, just get some more info on her mysterious bosses, maybe he can get closer to the heart of this whole ugly mess. Figure out a way to prevent this bullshit in the future. She’ll probably lie, but even lies can be useful in some way.

“So. What do you say? Sound like a good deal? Let me finish this transaction, you get your cut, and everyone walks away alive.” She laughs humorlessly and mumbles to herself, “Knew that girl was bad luck.”

John never lowered his weapon and now the hand holding the pistol is trembling minutely. Nick feels him out with the edge of his vision rather than looking at him. Besides the hand he’s so, so still and Nick’s concerned at how hard he’s grinding his teeth together. He can very faintly hear the squeal and click of them. _Christ,_ he shouldn’t be here.

“Hey, could y—” he starts, intending to send him back upstairs, to leave him here to finagle this on his own and halt whatever’s brewing before it gets out of hand.

But John speaks before he can finish, won’t look at him. _“How can you do this?”_

Hell.

Just flat contempt in John’s voice. Contempt and barely-contained hatred. Nick’s been keeping his own hidden, but this ain’t subtle at all. This is bad.

Vy finally looks over at John with a mild expression, like she’s only just now realized he’s there. “‘How can I do this?’” she repeats. “I need caps just like everyone else does. And like I said, it’s good money for the amount of effort it takes. Actually kind of fun sometimes. But if this is below you,” now there’s a hint of a sneer on her face, “you can always get lost and let me and your friend work this out.”

Rudely put, and for a different reason than what he’s thinking, but he reluctantly agrees; dimly (and futilely, he realizes) hoping that John’ll take her up on the offer to step out. But then she _really_ laughs. It’s shrill and sounds completely, utterly crazy. “But if you mean in the physical sense, it’s pretty obvious that the little ones are a lot easier to drag off than adults.”

The second Nick hears John's breath stopped dead in his throat, he knows exactly what's going to happen within the next half a second. Can see it play out in his mind’s eye, nice and neat in a speedy sequence like a film reel on fast forward. Hears the thundering report of the pistol in his hand before the actual sound erupts and echoes back at them in the empty room. Sees the ragged hole blossom in the middle of her forehead before it appears and fills with blood. Sees her unrelenting watcher’s eyes fade to dull and vacant.

He has just enough time to think _Well, that’s_ that _done for,_ and then it all snaps back up to the present. John might not be much of a shot, but at this range? Even the shakiest amateur to ever pick up a firearm couldn’t miss what he’s aiming at.

When the noise fades away, Vy is on the floor, just a silent bulk. John finally lets his hand fall to his side. He’s drawn and pale, eyes devoid of anything, and his lips are pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched down hard. It’s so far from his usual expression that he nearly looks like a different person. There’s a fine mist of blood on him from the entry wound; covering his hand, unseen against his dark clothes, but it resumes again on his neck and face. There’s even some soaking into his hair like he’s decided to dye it pink. Then his mouth twists up and he fires again, making Nick jump.

“John!” The body doesn’t move, just lays there like a sack. He fires again and Nick grabs his arm and turns him away.

“That’s enough.”

And now, looking up at Nick with the pistol dangling from his fingers and blood all over him, now his blank face shatters into anger. His lips peel back from his teeth, eyes are wide, and he jerks around in Nick’s grip on both his arms. He’s not too far gone though, he tosses the gun and it hits Vy’s hip with a thump and then clacks to the floor.

“Why? Huh? Think she didn’t deserve that?” Then his eyes darken even further with some sudden realization and he successfully wrenches himself away. His voice is so quiet, deceptively so. “Were you gonna let that thing live? Were you?”

Nick shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t.”

“No? Seemed to be gettin’ pretty chummy with her.”

Nick grits his teeth. “Not that I have to justify myself, but yeah. To find out more about who hired her to do this and why.”

John looks at him steadily, eyes searching his own until it seems like he finds what he’s looking for. He turns back to the corpse beside them. “She was scum,” he says to it quietly, every word tense and taut like a thin wire about to snap. “I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it. You don’t fucking do this, and you sure don’t fucking joke about it.”

Nick's upset at losing a possible lead, but also happens to have a pretty intimate grasp on John’s reasoning, so he can't be too angry. He’d felt his own finger put a couple more pounds of pressure on the trigger when she'd made that tasteless remark.

John lets a sharp breath out and wipes a hand over his cheek, smearing the blood spray there into even more noticeable streaks. “I don’t… Lecture me later. Let’s get this done and get those two the hell outta this shithole.”

Yeah. No objections there. “Fine. Help me get her out of sight and then we’re gonna roll her. See if she’s got any papers or the keys to the restraints, anything useful.”

They do, relocating her to the room behind them and shifting a few of the lighter crates over to cover up the puddle that had formed underneath. There’s not a whole lot else that could be hidden on her. Nick goes to takes his tie back from her wrists and discovers she’d already wriggled partway loose. Who knows what she’d’ve done once free. Probably not offered up a friendly hand of gin rummy.

“Here.” John pulls a very fine chain from around her neck and dangling at the end… a thick, dark metal key that looks like it might match the shackles. Nick takes it from him when he holds it up and carefully tucks it into his breast pocket. Thank god. They can finally get this wrapped up without any more nonsense.

Nick looks back at John where he’s just crouching there, staring off into space. His mouth is pulled down in a vague frown, fatigue is starting to really show on his face and in his shaky arms, and there’s still little speckles of blood covering him. Nick finds his handkerchief and holds it out to him. Nudges him when he ignores it.

“John.”

“What?” he snaps.

“Come on,” Nick says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. “Let’s not go back up there with blood all over us, okay?”

Some of the fierceness in John’s face breaks away and he takes (snatches) the cloth, scrubbing at his cheeks and forehead with short, rough movements. Wipes his hands on his jeans and looks up sourly.

“You still have…” Nick starts, pointing.

“Well, _get it_ then, I can’t see my own fucking face.”

As Nick leans in and wipes away the spots left in the hollows of his eyes, the crease of his nose, and what little he can do about what got in his hair, John’s face slowly loses its rigidity and then he’s taking quick little breaths and his body starts shaking. It takes a moment for him to get any sound out, but when he does, it’s laughter. Quiet, gasping giggles, which turn out to be extremely contagious here at half a foot away.

 _It’s the stress,_ Nick thinks as he grins and holds a hand over his mouth, squatting next to the gun-shot corpse of a kidnapper and knocking foreheads with the guy that killed her in a fit of anger. _This isn’t funny at all._ They kneel there and laugh as quietly as they can until John slips and kicks Vy’s foot and then they’re both off again, tears running down their faces. The laughter seems improper, or ill-timed at least, but it sure does make him feel better.

“This wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, was it,” Nick says when they finally get themselves under control again, giggles tapering off into groans. He stands, holds a hand out, and pull John back up to his feet.

John shakes his head and heaves a big sigh. “Let’s just go already. How’s my face?”

Nick looks him over, turning his chin to check both sides and glad that John lets him do it. Glad for _that,_ glad they’re both still kicking, and glad that they made it here in time. Their cleanup efforts look adequate; he’s lovely as always. “Well, I wouldn’t bring you along to a wedding or anything, but I don’t think you’re gonna make anyone sick either.”

“Shit, my one skill in life and it’s missing.”

When they make it back up to the room, Luke’s awake and Eleanor looks like she’s finally broken down and had a good cry at some point. Luke just goggles up at the two of them and then crawls over so that he’s just barely peeking over her shoulder.

“Oh, my god. I was so scared it wasn’t gonna be you,” Eleanor says, and then gives them both a relieved grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, figuring out/writing the Nick and John and Vy scene was tough, hope it all ended up making sense without getting overwrought, SHEESH.


	11. Just Let Him Look at the Stupid Thing

_November 29, 2280 7:00 PM_

 

Minutes later and the warehouse is behind them for good; shackles closed and latched around their own chains and key pitched so they can’t be used again. And it’s really a stroke of luck that Luke recognizes John (John’s smile brightening at that, saying, ‘Look at that. Famous and I didn’t even know it.’); he insists on holding his hand when they leave, his blanket whipped up into a makeshift poncho against the cold.

The three of them (Eleanor discreetly dropped back off at home) get some dinner while Nick tries to tactfully explain as much as he feels is necessary to the excitable six year old chowing down on fried brahmin strips and egg noodles. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem much worse for wear, probably blacked-out for most of it. Small blessings.

And about half an hour after that, they’re back at the Rexford room and it’s true nighttime again; stars out and the city tuned down to a low roar instead of an ear-splitting one. Nick sits and finishes up his report (actually writing this time; he goes back several times and makes sure it’s words on the page, not waveforms or sea creatures) while Luke demonstrates his gymnastic abilities until he finally flops down from a somersault and doesn’t have the energy to get back up. John’s ducked out again, so Nick scoops the kid up off the floor and puts him to bed. It’s late enough and he’s got nothing else to work on, so he retires himself to the couch; snagging a book and the spare blanket and kicking off his shoes.

They’d all come to the decision to wait for morning to make the trip back. A pack of mutants had been seen in the area (surprise), and after all this, Nick doesn’t feel like tempting fate or the wildlife any more than he needs to. The search and rescue had come together a lot quicker than he’d anticipated anyway; waiting another eight, nine hours so they can get a fresh start isn’t going to hurt anything. They’ll be back ahead of schedule, and Luke and Don can get right back to their lives as usual. Probably awful shook up, of course, but as far as what could’ve gone down, this is a pretty optimal result.

Nick’s still reading, eyes moving over words but unable to make any of them stick, and still unable to really settle in and relax. Strangely, he finds himself missing his bed in Diamond City. The familiar smell and feel of his sheets, the shape of his pillow. Not that this is bad, it just isn’t home. And that’s a funny thought as well; that it’s not his cramped little West Loop apartment he’s feeling homesick for.

There’s a quiet creak from the floor outside. Nick looks up to see the door slowly unlock and swing in, muted light from the hallway spilling in after it.

“Oh,” John says from the doorway. “Not asleep yet, huh?” Far from his usual brass and guts, he sounds and looks… shy. Or reluctant about something.

“Not for lack of trying,” Nick answers. And John still won’t come in, just haunts the threshold like an uninvited vampire. “Come on, get in here, you’re lettin’ all the heat out.”

Nick watches him come in and ease the door closed. He isn’t taking off his jacket, won’t look at Nick, and can’t seem to make up his mind on what he wants to be doing once he’s in. Compromises by pacing back and forth against the far wall, stopping and leaning on it every so often. Everything on his face screams ‘sleep deprived’ but he doesn’t stop slowly moving around, not even to take a seat on one of the chairs by him. Nick continues to watch over the top of his unread book until it just gets weird. He wonders how long he’d keep it up if left undisturbed.

“Doin’ okay, kid?”

John looks up. Back down. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 _Yuh huh, and I’m Lauren Bacall._ “How’s the wrist?”

“It’s fine too,” he says. But now he stops the pacing and keeps his left side angled away. The level of craftiness here is really off the charts.

Nick closes his book and slowly places it on the floor. Swings his legs off the side of the couch and sees John visibly huff and flounder in place as he crosses the room to stand by the desk. He can’t help but laugh at the way John’s puffing up like a cat with its hackles up. “It doesn’t seem like it’s fine.”

“I already had a doctor look at it, okay?” John raises his arm, shoving it toward him and just barely pulling back his sleeve so Nick can see where bandages have been woven around his thumb and fingers. He’s blushing as he does it, cheeks pink and eyes downcast. “He splinted and wrapped it. It’s—”

“Did you actually get it _fixed_ or just taped up?”

He drops the hand back down and grits his teeth with the unintended jolt it gives him. “Why are you so annoying?”

Mmhm.

“Because there’s no chance in hell I’m bringing you home with a broken anything,” Nick says. And because he hates seeing the mostly-hidden winces every time John has to move that arm for something. It’d been really difficult watching him try to eat in the crowded little shack from earlier while not turning around and biting the head off anyone who happened to jostle him. “Come on. Take that off,” he says, pointing at the kid's jacket, “and go siddown, tough guy.”

John glares at him, but after a few seconds of Nick glaring right back he shrugs off the coat, gingerly peeling the sleeve over his arm. He pushes past him and flops down on the couch with a mutter of _‘Christ.’_

He’s really making a big deal out of this. “If, for some reason, you’re embarrassed about getting hurt,” Nick starts, and is amused to see John’s already grouchy face get even worse. He turns away and opens his bag, unzips the little pocket on the side and digs through it. “I don’t think you should be. Seems like she’s been doing this for a long, long time and I’d put money down that she’s taken out guys and gals a lot meaner than either of us. Think we came out alright in the end. Besides, that was a damn fine punch you threw.”

John just grumbles.

Nick joins him on the couch, sinking into the adjacent cushion and laying out what he grabbed over his legs. An alcohol pad, his (now bloodless) handkerchief, and a stimpak.

“Man, come on!”

Nick shushes him and nods toward the bed.

“Sorry,” he mutters and then continues in an angry whisper. “Stims are expensive and this isn’t fucking worth one. It’ll be back to normal in—”

“In a couple months if you can, by some miracle, manage not to bang it up any worse. Yeah, I know.” Nick smiles. “It’s worth it to me, so shut up and hand over the hand, wouldja.”

John’s still got that I-can’t-believe-you’re-doing-this-to-me look on his exhausted face, but he holds his arm out and carefully lays his wrist into Nick’s waiting palm. “Good,” Nick says, rearranging them so John’s arm is stretched over his knees.

He’s curious what it looks like under the bandages, but doesn’t trust his own expertise to put them back the way they’re supposed to be so he just leaves them as they are. The acrid bite of alcohol makes them both wrinkle their noses as he tears the package open and wipes the pad over John’s inner arm. Nick holds the stim up to the light and checks the liquid as John’s skin dries and the smell fades.

“If you’ve got something else you wanna say that’s not about injury denial, I’m listening,” Nick says with a quiet laugh.

John just looks at him with a guilty expression. “What?”

“You look like you’re waiting for a Corvega to fall on your head and your breath keeps hitching and I’m about ninety-nine percent sure you don’t have a fear of needles. What’s up?”

“I… eh.” Something breaks in the way John’s been holding himself so stiffly and he crumples down a little, head dropping forward. He swallows and curls his other hand into a fist, hides his mouth with it. His voice is filled with distress. “I fucked up.”

Nick goes ahead and injects him, slowly sliding the needle into his skin and depressing the plunger. _So that’s it,_ he thinks. The tendons on John’s arm stand out for a brief second before fading back into the smooth surface. Nick wipes away the drop of blood that follows and gently squeezes his arm before releasing it, tossing the empty stim onto his book and moving around to the other end of the couch. He leans against the armrest and sticks one of his legs out so he’s resting a foot on John’s hip. “What do you mean?”

John glares down at his hand as he speaks, slowly testing the range of motion in it as the stim does its job. It’s already lookin’ pretty good. Better than his eyes anyway, they’re red and glassy… from emotion or weariness he doesn’t know. “You needed her for something and I... shot her and fucked up your thing you were doing. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Ah.”

“‘Ah’?”

Nick beckons John over and after a moment of confusion and looking like he’s just wants to stand up again and pace some more, he scoots closer. John lets Nick pull and move him around until he’s kind of curled up against Nick’s chest, Nick’s arms around his shoulders, their legs stretched out together on the couch cushions. It’s warm and comfortable, even if John’s stiffened body still feels like he’s uncertain about all this. Nick runs an equally hesitant hand through John’s hair, wishing all over again he’d taken better precautions on this. He’d been lazy.

“I don’t blame you, kid, not at all. I had no business taking you into that. I should’ve told you no.”

“What? You _did_ tell me no.”

“I did, but I shoulda tried harder. What kinda cop am I if I can’t stand up to one punk kid?” John pinches him after an offended grunt and Nick retaliates by tugging on one of his curls. “You couldn’t have known what I was doing cuz I didn’t plan anything with you beforehand; that was my fault entirely. I wasn’t prepared for a lot of what we came across and I should have been.

“You say you’re sorry, and I’ll accept it, but don’t think I’m putting any fault on you. That one was all me.”

John says nothing for a moment. Makes a noise like he wants to argue, but then just breathes out a quiet _‘Okay’_ in a low whisper, some small amount of tension running out of him.

“And besides all that," Nick goes on, "I’m also of the opinion that she needed one between the eyes. Would’ve liked to try and question her, sure, but who knows if she would’ve actually told us anything useful. I get the feeling it woulda been all gold-edged lies and misdirection until she worked her hands free. No great loss.”

They lie there in silence. John curls a hand around Nick's arm and Nick lowers his hand to cover the back of John’s neck, thumb rolling over the vertebrae there. After a few tranquil minutes, John hums quietly. “You feel responsible for me or somethin’, don’t you.”

“Well, I… yeah.” Shouldn’t he? This had been his show and he’d dragged someone else into avoidable danger along with him; unprepared for the synth cavalcade and accompanying madwoman. He hears the implication there though, _You don’t gotta worry about me._ Good luck with that. Worrying’s been bred into him, pressed into his fabric over the years. “Wish I hadn’t put you into a position where you felt you had to kill someone.”

John lets out a sarcastic _ha_ into Nick’s shirt and he’s made aware again of how vastly different their concerns are from each other’s. “You know, you always have that I’m-in-charge-and-gotta-take-care-of-everyone attitude. You a dad?”

That sends a spike of ice through him. A small one, but still. _This is part of it,_ he reminds himself with an internal smile. _Get a new friend and it’s just a waiting game ‘til they come across a sore spot._ “No,” he says, as even as he can with a person’s ear pressed right up against his chest to hear any vocal shakes. “Never had any kids.” At one time, awfully long ago, he’d wanted some but it had never come to pass.

“Siblings then?”

“Yeah,” Nick says slowly. Another twinge. “Little brother.”

“Ha, that’d do it,” John says. “Me and mine fight all the damn time but he gets like that too every so often. What’s his name, your brother?”

“Dmitri,” he says, then corrects himself a second later. ‘Dmitri’ was for arguments. “Dima.”

He knows he says it strangely because John cranes his head around to look up at him. Watches his face for a moment as Nick stares off at the wall.

_Dima._

“Don’t wanna talk about him, huh.”

“Not really, no.” Nick sighs. “I haven’t even thought about him in at least a year. We parted badly.”

“That’s fair,” John murmurs, shifting against his chest.

It had been an ugly and almost violent argument, that last one at the end. Years of camaraderie, just like it oughta be between brothers, and then Nick had made a reckless, stupid decision and it turned out to be something Dima couldn't forgive him for. With good reason. They'd argued, it wasn't something that could be resolved, and Nick had gone east with it festering there between them. Something he’s regretted since. The only problem is he has no idea where Dima is now to tell him he’s sorry for the way it went down. Could've fallen in with any number of groups and gone with them, could’ve headed up north like he always talked about, could be anywhere, really.

“Hate to make you move,” Nick starts, (and he really does, laying here with John’s smaller body sprawled over him is comforting in a way that feels like it's been missing for a long time) “but let’s turn out the lights. We should get some sleep— you especially —before we head back.”

“Mmmrgh,” John says. He stretches out straight for a moment before getting his knees under him and sliding over Nick’s leg to the floor. “No arguments here. Too tired.”

“You want the couch?” Nick asks, turning and getting ready to stand. “I’ll take one of the chairs.”

“See, if we do that… one of us is gonna be freezing all night. Unless you wanna go pester whoever’s at the desk for another blanket, cuz I ain’t doin’ it. We can share, if it’s alright with you.” John snaps one of the lights off and kicks his boots next to his backpack. And still facing away he says, “And before you start, I was serious. I’m tired. Way too fuckin’ tired to try anything. Cuz damn. I’m awesome, but even I’ve got limits.”

Nick laughs and lays back down. “Alright.”

 

_November 29, 2280 11:30 PM_

 

And now he can’t sleep again; lies in the dark and blames his fouled-up schedule on recent events. He and John have bundled up together, each at one end of the couch with their legs in a loose tangle in the middle and the blanket tucked around them, and Nick can’t stop shifting around. He knows he’s keeping John up but his brain won’t turn off and his body can’t quit fidgeting. Thinking about this past day; replaying the dying squawk of the synth John had ripped the head from, their entry into the prisoner room, Vy’s empty gaze looking up at them from her self-assured position on the warehouse floor, the crack of the shot that brought her to her end.

And beyond that, wondering if this will have any sort of impact on Goodneighbor itself. Over dinner, Nick had quietly asked John if he thought Vic knew about any of it. John had answered, leaning over and lips hidden by his fingers and fork, ‘Vic’s crazy but I don’t think even he would mess around with the… them. No way.’

And as terrible as it is to think about, he also hopes that what Vy said was true. That if it hadn’t been her there, it would’ve been someone else. It might not’ve been what she’d meant, but that led him to believe she was expendable. Like maybe she wasn’t important enough to send someone to look for her.

Nick twists to the right and readjusts his hat. He’s got it dropped over his face to block out the little bit of light that comes in through the curtains. Doing that usually helps for a quick nap at the office, but it’s not accomplishing too much now. His head thuds and he can feel his pulse in the back of his eyes. It’s sort of nauseating.

On their way out, he plans on leaving an anonymous note near the state house mentioning the dead body so it can be cleared away. They may not even care, may just let it rot, but it seems like the considerate thing to do. If anyone does go to check it out though, they’ve gotta put two and two together with the synth corpses there too. Though that may also go ignored. The people around here seem to be in such utter fear of the Institute that sense just flees, and they hope that pretending like nothing's there will make it so. He hasn’t had enough dealings with the Institute to know much about them, and no one wants to goddamn talk about them, so there’s—

“Nick?” John’s croaky, sleepy voice comes out of the darkness.

“Sorry,” Nick whispers back. He’d bumped him again, hadn’t he. Damnit. “I… oh. Hi.” He feels John’s legs pull away and the couch dip down under him and suddenly John’s stretched out beside him, shoulder wedged in under his armpit and arm flopped out over his chest. John pulls the blanket up around them again and squirms even closer. He’s warm from sleep, almost hot, fingers stroking over the top of Nick’s chest and across his arm.

“You’re twitching around like you got into someone’s psycho stash on accident. ...Which I’ve got a dumb story about if you wanna hear it sometime,” he adds with a stifled yawn. “What’s up, buddy?”

Nick makes a strangled noise of annoyance and rips his hat off and tosses it to the floor in disgust. “Thinking too much.” He feels so full of thoughts and images that he wouldn’t be surprised if they were all dripping right out his ears. He sighs. “What I really need is a drink but I don’t even wanna move, let alone go hunt one down.”

John hums and moves around, hitches a hip up and then pulls something small out of his back pocket and holds it up in front of Nick’s face. Shakes it a little and he can hear the slosh of liquid. “Have a little of this, it’ll definitely put you out.”

It’s jet. Not a terrible thing on its own, just the insane rate of addiction rate it has and everything that rides along with that. A good chunk of the force back home had heavily relied on the different varieties to get through their work day, Nick recalls. To wake up, to get to sleep, to get the edge in a gunfight, to… ease the impact of something that won’t quite go away. Sad to see when it slipped and went wrong, but usually effective enough that the higher-ups were alright with turning a blind eye to it.

The really hilarious part was when the officers that used were sent out to shut down the sellers that were pushing too hard somewhere in the city. Irony at its best. And then when the confiscated product went unaccounted for? Curiouser and curiouser.

But Nick’s never been one of them, never wanted to be.

“John…”

He’s already uncapping the nozzle at the bottom and wiping it off on his shirt. “Yeah?”

“I don’t…”

“Don’t usually do this kinda thing, yeah, I’ve heard it. C’mon, I’ll shotgun it. Half a hit. It’s almost nothing.” He worms his way up closer to Nick’s face, laying his head right next to his so his murmured breaths warm Nick’s ear and neck instead of his collarbones. Warm or not, it makes Nick shiver. “And if you’re not asleep within five minutes, I’ll eat your hat and all the dirt you just threw it in.”

He doesn’t need the sleep, not that badly. But he does need to turn off. Sweep away the twirling mind and get back to somewhere calmer and that is _not_ going to happen on its own anytime soon. He’d also like to be up as early as he can to get Luke back over to his dad asap. Lock this case up and be done with it; take a break if it comes or get ready for whatever’s up next. And laying here kicking John all night isn’t going to help with any of that.

Nick frowns up at the ceiling. Bargains with himself and tells himself it’s an extenuating circumstance. That his head’s going to pop if he doesn’t do something about it. That he’ll take a week off alcohol to atone. He sniffs and can’t believe he isn’t saying no. Again.

“Please don’t eat my hat,” he says by way of weak acceptance.

John laughs and brings his hand up to his mouth. “Ready? Just breathe it in and let it out.”

Still full of misgivings, he hears the click-hiss of the mechanism, a deep, sucking breath from John, and then feels fingers turn his head to the side. In a caricature of a kiss, John’s lips push against his, part, and he breathes out a thin mist. Nick feels it on his tongue, sifting harsh down his throat, and blooming into both lungs. His eyes close, shutting out John’s watchful face and he feels everything slow down to an easy drag. Slow and floaty, like being in a breathable ocean.

The rub of his clothes against him feels… so strange. Like he’s feeling things through a microscope, can discern each fiber and seam as he moves. He lifts a hand to John’s face and that’s even stranger. The heat of him, the softness of his cheek against his fingers, the hundreds of needle points from his unshaved jaw, the way he can feel each tooth through his lips and the tickle of his breath when Nick pulls him back in and really kisses him. John makes a surprised noise and then relaxes into it, pushing up against Nick and letting him guide him where he wants. Soft and warm and so nice it’s almost painful…

...and then the feeling is fading away. Time lurches back up to speed, and he can move again without feeling like he’s covered in syrup and razor blades. He breaks away from John slowly, licking his lips and finally able to notice the horrible taste coating his mouth from the chem.

“Jesus,” he says with a slow exhale. “That is rank.”

John kisses him again, making sure to blow a gross-smelling puff of air at him when he pulls back. Nick turns away and makes a joking _‘bleh’_ sound. “Y’don’t do it for the taste, Nicky. Works though, don’t it.”

It does. His mind is a pleasant calm, concerns having drained away along with the oversensitivity. Things feel easy. Like there’s not really anything to worry about. He can’t even properly worry about how good just a partial dose felt; just glazes it over and thinks about the bigger stuff again. They’ll wake up in the morning, go home, things’ll be good. The rescue went off fine, they got what they came for and no one got seriously hurt or killed. Luke’s here. Nick’s here. John’s here with him. Everything else is just background details.

And John… he couldn’t have done most of this without him. Not as easily, in any event. Good kid.

“Thank you,” Nick says, bringing his hand up to blindly pet down his side.

John takes another quick huff and sticks the tube back in his pocket. Gets comfortable again and rubs his hip up against Nick’s. “No problem, this stuff’s pretty easy to get ahold of.”

“No, not the jet, I mean coming along with me for this.”

“Oh,” John scoffs. “Yeah. Sure. I was a real big help.”

“No, you really were,” Nick says. John’s got his hand laid over Nick’s heart, and he can feel the even beat of it jumping against the kid’s palm. “You told me who to talk to... you found Vy on your own... you saved _both_ our asses when I ran out of ammo... _and_ you helped me get those two out of there with no more muss than there had to be.”

He smiles in the dark, tracking the faint, glimmering lights from outside playing on the ceiling.

“Even gave me some moral support on the way here. I get the heebie jeebies walking through this city alone.” John snorts. “You shot the perp, sure, but I doubt we missed out on anything important.” Nick yawns and slides his hand down around the shallow curve of John’s waist. He could sleep now; probably all the way through ‘til morning. That’d be nice. “Tell me your dumb psycho story, if you’re still awake. If you want.”

“Huh? The… oh.” John laughs quietly before yawning himself and continuing in a voice slurred by fatigue. “It’s actually a dumb psycho _buff_ story. So uh, the thing was I’d never taken this stuff before; never even _heard_ of it. So it was brand ass new to me and this motherfucker I’d been cheating at cards with all day thought he’d give me a double dose of it without telling me what it did.”

Nick groans.

“Yeah, exactly. I socked him in the jaw as soon as it hit me, not cuz I was pissed or anything, even though I shoulda been, but just cuz that’s what my mind decided I _absolutely needed to do_ right then. And then I made my goddamn escape before I ended up assaulting security and getting thrown in lockup. I mean I felt like killing _everything_ I looked at so I just sprinted around Diamond City’s outskirts for ten minutes until I could come up with a plan that didn’t go like ‘tear that guy’s face off’. Wound up jumping in the river and sitting there ‘til I cooled off. And when I came down and it was all over I was so fucking hungry.”

Nick’s at a loss. What the hell kind of people does John usually hang around? “You’re right, that was… really dumb.”

“You’re tellin’ me. Lesson of the story is uh.” John hums to himself. “Don’t let strangers give you drugs or you’ll end up with river silt in your asscrack and a mad craving for canned dog food. If you're lucky.”

And with that, John brushes one last sleepy kiss over Nick’s cheek and rolls over. Nick expels a short grunt that’s almost a laugh and closes his eyes again, back to back with John. He’s not really sure what he was expecting or if John’s ‘lesson’ was meant to be a poke at him, but that… was certainly something. Weird end to a weird day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this case tied up and finished, may take a quick break. I didn't have anything really _planned_ after this, just a few amorphous idea blobs that I gotta wrangle in. Stay tuned and I'll see you soon.


	12. The Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever stop editing and fussing over shit? Signs point to _no._

_November 30, 2280 12:30 PM_

 

It’s these moments, these right here, that make all the failures worth it. The failures where he’s too late, or the leads run out and there’s nothing else to go on, or something just goes horribly, inescapably wrong and Nick has to walk away from a case with the echo of gunshots in his ears and regret in his heart… the successes forgive all that.

Luke’s hitched up on Nick’s left hip, small hands twined into his collar and epaulet and foot kicking impatiently off his thigh. They’d waved ‘bye to John a few streets ago, letting him peel off to head home to slam doors and loudly proclaim his return to his brother while the two of them continued up the stone steps of the stands to their own destination. Nick raises his hand to the door they’re waiting in front of then turns to look at Luke, a cautious eyebrow raised.

“You ready?”

Luke nods his head rapidly, eyes sparkling and hair flopping around like crazy. He’s almost squirmed himself loose of the blanket he’s been cloaked in this whole time and his sneaker’s come untied again somehow (one of those little kid superpowers), but he looks fine and happy and about ready to explode. “Yes,” he says with complete surety.

“Why don’t you do it? I don’t think I can knock hard enough for your dad to hear.” Nick says, leaning him in closer to the door. “Go on, give it a real good thump.”

He does, banging his fist on the painted wood and giving a loud cry of ‘Daddyyyy!’ for good measure. There’s only a few seconds of waiting before the door swings inward and Don’s crowding into the doorway, worry-weary face breaking into shock and then a radiant grin as Luke shrieks and reaches for him. The kid’s laughing and screaming as his dad crushes him close and swings him around in a tight circle and showers kisses all over his face.

When Don gets himself together enough to remember that there’s someone else standing there, he immediately sticks a hand out. Nick feels all the past day’s terror and uncertainty and anger evaporate in his grasp. Feels all of Don’s joy and relief when he pulls Nick in closer for a laughing almost-hug alongside the two of them.

Yeah, he’d say this makes it all worth it.

 

_December 4, 2280 11:00 AM_

 

“So, is not my business, but I have to ask,” Vadim says, hand still wrapped around an ancient newspaper. He’s been occasionally swatting the bar top (and his brother, when he strays within range) with it to the beat of the music coming in over the radio instead of reading it. “You know how curiosity is. Deadliest thing of all.” The tone of his voice sounds close to apologetic.

There’s a tense game of darts going on in the nearby corner of the room; a guy in a violently red baseball cap is up on the gentleman with what looks like a dozen crows worth of feathers and bones adorning his collar. Nick drags his eyes off them to look back at Vadim. “Sure I do, built a whole career around it,” he says, turning back to face the bar with a smile. He sets his empty glass down and wonders if getting loaded this early in the day is a good idea or something he should save for an emergency.

“Ha! True enough. Another one?”

To hell with it. “Yeah, may as well.”

Vadim drops his voice to what might pass as quiet for him, leaning over the bar top and grinning widely at Nick before he drops a fresh glass in front of him. “Just wondering how things worked out with your eh, drinking partner in the end last week. Saw him chase you out.”

“Oh.”

Cripes, he’d nearly forgotten about that; feels like it happened ages ago.

“There was a little bit of a misunderstanding but we settled it amicably,” Nick says. “Got everything put right. Still friends.”

It’s enough of the truth. All a chatterbox bartender’s gonna get out of him at any rate.

“Ahh.” Without the promise of either a lecherous or violent story, Vadim visibly deflates, slouching down and getting back to his almost on-beat tapping. He shrugs. “Well, that is good. Little shit needs a few normal friends.”

Nick almost laughs at the sudden ebb of interest and takes a sip of his drink. “He also mentioned that regrettably, he might be forced to break your arm if you keep trying to ruin his pursuits.”

Vadim cackles and makes a brief show of flexing what muscle he has. Probably enough to give John a run for his money, all from hauling kegs and wrestling with kettles and vats. Probably. “Tiny man can try. Any time.

“What a troublemaker, that one,” he continues after lowering his arms. “He tries to keep it subtle— does a good enough job I guess—but it _is_ my bar and I remember how bad I was at keeping my business to myself at that age.”

Nick politely (and with great difficulty) keeps his mouth shut on that. The way Vadim shouts anything that comes to mind at the clientele or his long-suffering brother, no matter his proximity in the bar says that that's one character flaw he never got resolved.

“Besides, people love to talk. Me included, of course. Ha! Who is jumping into bed with who? Always a hot topic no matter where you go.”

 _Facts of life,_ Nick thinks. _As long as there’s humans or, hell, any sentient beings around it’s inescapable._

Yefim comes back from the far side of the room, pushing past Vadim and jostling him with an armload of ashtrays and dirty dishes and glasses. He nods at Nick as he passes by, Nick raising a finger to his temple in salutation. “If he’s bothering you,” Yefim says, tilting his head toward Vadim, “don’t feel too bad about telling him where to shove his stories. He’s not going to shut up unless you tell him. And even then… eh. Fifty-fifty.”

Nick covers a grin as Vadim waves him off, not even turning around. “Ech. Little McDonough doesn’t come here for the drinks, is all I’m saying. But you found that out first-hand, eh? Eh?” Nick rolls his eyes and Vadim’s off laughing again, loud enough to draw the distracted eye of Baseball Cap still trying to line up a shot. Yefim sighs and heads around the backbar, throwing a tired look at his chuckling brother and then a shorter one at Nick that says _You see what I have to deal with?_

Then Vadim smacks himself with his newspaper. “But wait, wait, hold on. The other day a certain somebody came in for a few rounds and told me and Yefim all about how our very own Diamond City detective went out and rescued his little kartoshka! That was you, wasn't it! Why waste time on this boring shit, tell us all about it!”

 

_December 23, 2280 6:30 PM_

 

And work continues to come in. Inconsistently, but that’s alright. It gives him time to socialize (probably spending more time than’s necessarily healthy sitting on a bar stool), pick through some puzzle and word search booklets while buried under a few layers of blankets, pester Roberts into giving him partial access to the city’s records, tinker around with his microfilm reader, and do a little solo exploring of the area surrounding Diamond City. The boys in security do an admirable job of keeping the perimeter free of danger, but one tragically short case brings Nick around to the bower of something that might just need a small army to take down. _Extra-large super mutants living in ponds?_ he thinks after making a hasty (but tactical) retreat back down the street. _What_ doesn’t _Boston have?_

The next three hours are spent hashing out a way to tactfully break the bad news to the missing fella’s poor lady friend.

But then it swings around to the very tail end of the year and there haven’t been any requests in at least a week. Too dreary and frigid out there for anyone to be in a crime-committing mood, Nick speculates. Everyone’s at the mercy of mother nature, wicked and decent alike.

He’s upstairs cleaning out a chest of drawers, thighs covered in thread fragments and fuzzballs, and heavily weighing out the benefits of closing up early again when he hears the muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. Eyes tipping up and exhaling a surprised chuff of smoke, Nick calls down, “Right with you.”

When he comes down the stairs and looks back out into the office proper, he both is and isn’t surprised to see John there, looking over the stacks of papers and case files Nick had left out. Well, “left out”. More came home and let them fall where they may once he was finished with them. A week or five ago.

John looks up at Nick, face shifting into an almost-smile before getting back to it, picking delicately through the papers and adding sheets to a stack in his other hand. _Well, he can’t make much more of a jumble of them than they already are, whatever he’s doing,_ Nick thinks, watching him as he steps down to the floor. He’s minus the pencil skirt and horn-rim glasses, but John’s got the no-nonsense look and sexy hip tilt of the precinct secretaries down pat.

“Why’s this place such a sty?” he says in lieu of an actual greeting. “You seem like you’d be more organized than this.”

“You think so?”

Nick maneuvers around him and crosses back over to his desk while John _mmhm’s_ at him.

“And I bet you live a life of order and tidiness,” Nick says.

“Never said that.”

 _Yeah,_ Nick thinks. _Not worth it._ He tries to surreptitiously shoves some of the clutter off the blotter and ruins it by dumping a stapler on the floor. ‘Neat’ is not something he’d ever try to call himself and years of being around his fellow slobs in the force hadn’t helped those leanings improve. Clean, sure. Neat, nah. Waste of time and happiness. Who’s he trying to impress, anyway?

He props an ankle over a knee and tips back in his chair until it squeaks; smushes the stub of his cigarette out into a cracked glass bowl resting on a mismatched stack of encyclopedias. “How ya been, kid? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

More than a while, come to think of it. The closest they’d come was Nick catching a glimpse of blond and black leather from across the market when he went for lunch at the noodle stand two or so weeks ago. Heard his high-pitched laugh and the murmur of an unfamiliar voice responding from somewhere nearby another time when he’d been out and on his way to a meeting. Nothing more than that since he’d brought Luke home.

John gives him another sidelong glance. “Mm. Missed me, huh?”

Nick tips his hand back and forth in a _comme ci comme ça_ motion and John snorts at him.

“Yeah, y’did,” he says, turning away again. “Well, I’m doin’ alright. The folks came home from Kendall so we’ve all been having some nice, boring family bonding time together. I love ‘em but I need a break. Only so many games of Blast Radius or Atomic Snap you can play before the sound of the dice popper starts haunting your dreams.”

 _That’s right, he mentioned them back before we left for Goodneighbor,_ Nick thinks, picking at his shirt cuffs and imagining a car-sized die galloping after a screaming dream-John. _Last run of fieldwork before the ground gets too solid to shift._

“Been doing some of that, hunted some mirelurks with my dad, then all the same old.” John sets down his collection of papers, apparently decided that that one’s finished and starts on a new one. “And… well, I guess I’m still working on making friends with those two recluses that run the radio. Fuckin’ hard when they only come out of their box to eat or take a piss.”

“Two?”

DCR’s perfect stuff for when Nick wants to turn off and just wallgaze for a while or catch up on the news around town, but he’s never seen the actual face, or actually, _faces,_ behind the speakers. And now he knows why. Good luck to them both if John’s decided he’s gonna lay siege to their broadcast trailer.

“Travis Miles’s the tech guy and then you know Kent. The talent. Voice guy and star of the whole deal,” John says. “Kent’s a little easier to talk to, as you’d guess, but I think they’re both coming around. I actually got a full sentence out of Travis the last time. Watch, I’ll have my own morning segment by next week.”

“You can sit still long enough for a morning segment?”

John levels a withering look at him. “Already a critic and I ain’t even got an interview yet. No faith.”

“Yeah, that’s the way showbiz is, I hear,” Nick says serenely, still leaned back and just watching John do whatever he’s doing. Thin fingers flick down pages, back curved in a relaxed slump, eyebrows dip every so often as he struggles to read something. There’s an unusual, meditative quality to the way he does it, slow and graceful and loose. Another stack gets shifted and tossed down next to the first.

“You know, people usually get paid to do that,” Nick ventures after a time.

“What, shuffle papers around?”

“It’s called ‘filing’. Yeah.” Nick grins. “You lookin’ for a job? Think there might be a free slot or two around here.”

John looks mildly perturbed at that, but his sorting doesn’t stop. “Moi? An office job? Gimme a break.”

Nick raises his eyebrows and hands in surrender; wonders how genuine that little touch of ire in his voice is and what it’s about if it’s real.

Minutes pass with the sound of John’s rustling and the soft sputter of the little kerosene heater he’s got going in the corner. If the captain burst in the door right now to shout about that goddamn enclave post down the block giving him the evil eye on the way there it’d be just like home. Well, work, specifically. But work was always a second home to him. The clack of typewriters; smell of carbon paper, coffee, and the fried pastries the shop next door made on Tuesdays; Dawes trying (and failing) to get the drop on him at his desk, then pretending like he was just heading for the can when he got caught. And always thinking he’d gotten away with it. Oh, boy.

“You’re staring, m’dear.”

Nick blinks and refocuses on John, a little bemused to discover that his allegation is indeed correct. The corner of the kid’s mouth curves up as he knocks his current sheaf against the tabletop to straighten it. Whoops.

Nick smiles right back and sets his chin in his hand, propping his elbow against his armrest and gives John an exaggerated head to toe sweep to really make a show of it. Try to disguise whatever bit of embarrassment just manifested. “Well,” he says. “You’re not too awful to look at.”

John lowers his arms and turns to face Nick with an eyebrow cocked and chin tilted up, displaying his throat (no necklace of bruises there this time, thank you) and the edge of his jaw in a very thought-provoking pose. “Yeah? I bet I’d look even better close up,” he says, calmly staring Nick down. He runs the tip of his tongue out over his lip. “Wanna see if I’m right?”

“I, uh. Hm.”

Tempting.

And impossible to turn that back around on someone like John; he should’ve known better, really.

Ignoring the way his heart starts going a little faster and the defensiveness that naturally pops up, Nick silently considers the offer. It’s not too tough to come to a conclusion; he gets there with surprisingly little self-convincing: he _wants_ this. Wants those sinful hands and mouth on him; to be near him. He’d come to terms with the fact that Nick Valentine might not be quite as straight as he’d once thought. Okay. That’s fine. Something he can adjust to.

The difference in age, hell, the difference in the amount of life they’ve each lived, really, that’s still a little more of a sticking point. Gives him this creeping, slimy feeling in the back of his mind every time he thinks about the kid in an indecent way. Though in that same track, he knows John’s not inexperienced in this; that was _not_ something Vadim had needed to spell out for him, not at all. And that’s all John really wants from him, isn’t it? Does that make it alright?

But regardless of all else, the last thing he wants to do again is freeze up in that twitchy, rabbity fear of being caught out. _Turn him down if you want to, but don’t do it for a cruddy reason,_ he thinks. _And not in a cruddy way. Don’t hurt him._ Acting like that… he knows it’s rough on John’s feelings. Which is not something he wants to poke holes in; not if he can help it. Kid deserves better than that.

“Yeah. Y’know what?” he says, glancing down at his watch. “I was pretty much done for the day. You mind locking up for me?”

“Wouldn’t mind at all.” John throws a wolfish smile over his shoulder as he steps away.

It’s odd to him still, for sure, that someone so young and desirable and probably able to pick up any damn person he wants to would show this kind of interest in him. And he’s flattered like always, weirdly humbled as he watches the easy saunter of bootheels on their way to box them in together. Maybe someday he’ll ask John what the deal is, but for now? Nick will just take what he’s given… and he’s pretty damn sure he’ll like it.

The thought flits away when John comes stalking back to push himself between Nick’s partly spread legs, nudging them apart with his own knees. John looks down at him for a moment, searching his face with his chapped lower lip caught in his teeth. Sort of like he’s trying to figure out which part of Nick he’s gonna take a big bite out of first.

But John says something startlingly thoughtful instead of the newest piece of compelling filth Nick was expecting. “What do you want, Nicky? What do you want me to do?”

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how far or in which direction he wants this to go today, but this is a good enough (if maybe a little standard) first step. “Take this off?” Nick asks, shifting more upright and pulling at the hem of John’s shirt. “Gotta say there hasn’t really been an equitable trade of skin so far.”

John’s already standing still, but Nick sees him stutter to a further halt, and he has a moment to wonder what he said wrong. But then John’s hands come up and start drawing the grey-blue shirt over his head.

Of course he’s showy about it, like he’s done it times without count and has it down to a perfect art at this point. But that just means Nick can enjoy the reveal. The thin line of darker gold hair leading up to his shallow navel is exposed, the jut of his hips, the lean sweep of his chest, and then the shirt’s peeled the rest of the way off with a quick undulation and tossed over the desk beside them.

And he sees a look on John’s face like he’s about to deliver a hilarious punchline from a joke he’s never told before.

“I’m offering myself up here,” he says, contemplative and running his fingertips over his cheeks and neck, “for any dirty little imaginings you might have, and you tell me to take my shirt off? Man, where the fuck did you _come_ from?”

Nick purses his lips and strongly considers giving the kid a headbutt to the solar plexus. Just enough to knock the breath out of him. Y’know, between friends. Instead, he curls a hand over John’s hip and traces down the light trail of hair with the fingers of the other.

“Maybe I like to start off slow, okay? Ever think of that?” he says. Nick pulls John in closer and kisses the smooth skin of his stomach, bites it and feels him jump under his lips. “Maybe I need a little romancing before just jumping right in, you utter brat.”

John lets out a quiet guffaw at that, flinching away from the teeth pricking into his ribs but then melts under the slow kisses and licks that follow. Moans a quiet affirmation when Nick’s attentions roam closer to his waistband and lets his hands settle lightly on his head.

Nick makes a thorough exploration of the furnace-hot surface of the kid’s torso. No curves there to speak of, not what he’s used to, but interesting nonetheless. He’s thin and small, wiry even, but there’s just enough muscle to keep him from being outright bony, all compact and smoothly flexing as he bends and shifts. John’s fingers rub into the short hair behind Nick’s ear as he breathlessly laughs and sways into the questing hands, trying to tug Nick closer.

“Why are you so damn impatient?” Nick says as he lets his palms slide around to the kid’s backside. And that’s an unexpectedly nice handful; more to grab there than he’d assumed. “And aggressive. You’re gonna scare me off.”

“I am _not,”_ John replies, sounding deeply (and insincerely) offended. “Not at all. Promise; sweetest guy you’ll ever meet.” He runs his nails down the side of Nick’s face, over the edge of his jaw. So soft, but he’s grinning that slightly insane grin and Nick shivers against him. “If you wanna keep petting me or like, read bedtime stories and hold my hand all night, we can. I’ve done weirder.”

Nick blows a long breath out over his lip. He could still headbutt him… he’s right there.

“But I got a better idea if you wanna hear it,” John says, switching from provoking to provocative with a low purr. He nudges a toe against the locking mechanism on Nick’s chair, then brings a knee up and slides smoothly into his lap. Nick’s hands slide up automatically to clutch onto his hips. “Something simple.”

This close he can see how John’s throat and ears have gone a charming shade of pink and he has a really detailed view of the thick, sinuous lines of ink trailing over his shoulder and around his bicep. Can smell the December air in his clothes and the nicotine and new heat on his skin. Feel the warm, vital weight of him pressing down on the tops of his thighs.

“Okay then, shoot,” he says. It’s tough to break his gaze away from John’s face and how intently he’s staring right back at him.

“How about I take the rest of my clothes off, sit just like _this,”_ John demonstrates by dragging himself up tight and hard against Nick’s hips and stomach, “and jerk us both off nice and slow.” His mouth twists into a half-smile as Nick makes a low noise. “That romantic enough? Give you a sec to think about it, yeah?” Their foreheads touch and Nick’s lips part, feeling like he needs a lot more oxygen than he’s currently taking in.

But John doesn’t let him get it; he puts his hands on the sides of Nick’s neck and kisses him, long and deep and laced with tiny flicks of tongue and a slow roll of his hips that showcases exactly how this is all gonna fit together if Nick turns out to be agreeable.

So he thinks about it. Gives it a fair bit of consideration as he groans around John’s tongue insistent in his mouth. Weighs out the pros and cons with John’s palms warm and sliding over the heavy drum beat of his pulse. Decides it might not be the worst plan he’s ever heard as he runs his own hands up the firm arc of John’s back to curl around the nape of his neck. When John pulls away to raise a questioning eyebrow at him, Nick’s an overheated mess and barely manages a nod and a breathless ‘Yeah, yes’ that sounds half terrified and half horribly eager.

John unfolds himself from Nick’s lap and finishes his striptease with a slow fire in his eyes. Boots come off first. Steps on the heel of one and yanks his foot out. Does the same with the other and kicks them away. Then his fingers tease down his stomach, sliding over the shallow vee of his hips before popping the button on his frayed jeans and pulling the zip down. Thumbs hook into the sides and he eyes Nick as he wiggles his hips and shimmies his pants down his legs. He rubs his hands up both thighs when he straightens back up. Slowly drags up over his balls and gives his cock a single, languid stroke, letting it bounce in the air; everything on open, easy display. It leaves Nick momentarily speechless, half awe-struck; staring at him in his imperfect entirety.

And this is definitely the closest Nick’s been to one of these that wasn’t his own. Strange thought.

“Any concerns? Comments?” John asks. He tips his chin up and looks down his cheek at Nick, apprehensive but hiding it well. “Too weird? Gross? Not if I was the last dude on earth?”

No, none of that at all. He’s been hooked since the shirt came off and then just unapologetically hard since John knelt over him, and this… Seeing him like this— glowing and hot and needy under the bright office lights— is doing nothing whatsoever to dissuade that. Nick shakes his head.

“No. Little out of my norm for obvious reasons, but damn. You’re pretty all over.”

The smile that that draws out is sweet in how sudden and unguarded it is. “Aw, thanks, Nicky.” And then, expression completely unchanging, he says, “Now get your fuckin’ dick out.”

Nick has to snort at how blunt the request is, but he dutifully does as he’s asked and then reaches out to draw John in close when he tumbles back into his lap, all knees and elbows. The chair isn’t really big enough to hold the two of them, but it works somehow; they find a way to cram in ‘til they fit. John’s up close as he can get while still unbuttoning Nick’s shirt and digging a finger into the knot of his tie to work it side to side and strip it off him. He’s hasty and eager and pressing his lips hard against Nick’s mouth as he does it, kissing him like he’s not gonna get another chance at it.

“Easy, kid,” Nick says when he manages to break away, panting out a laugh and turning his head away to lean his face against John’s bare arm. “I’m not— ha, not going anywhere, slow it down.”

John just growls at him, pushes him back and runs his hands up Nick’s chest, spreading his shirt apart and tucking it back behind his shoulders. “Then touch me, okay? Anywhere… just...”

Before John can follow that up with grabbing Nick by the wrists his own damn self, Nick does what he asks and sets a surprisingly steady hand on John’s bare, winter-pale thigh. Slides it up, up, up… then halts at the join of leg to body and raises a questioning eyebrow at him. The pause is honestly more for him than it is for John. As his palm and thumb rub over the trembling muscles, he gets one last swoop of that feeling… _(stop it, you don’t know what you’re doing, act like a damn_ adult, _would you)_ ...but no, that isn’t really true. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

John looks up with a strangled noise and almost agony in his gaze. Only a second passes before he bites his lip and whispers, “Jesus, what are you waiting for? Keep going.”

“Well,” Nick says. “Just making sure you really want it.”

Recollection dawns in John’s eyes and he murmurs a low ‘Oh no’ before Nick’s lips twitch up and he continues the motion to bring them where they’d been headed.

It’s weird; there’s no two ways about it. But with the way John shudders out a long, humming breath and digs his fingers into Nick’s arms… it’s nice too. Encouraging. Nick slowly slides up the hot, silky flesh and gently rolls his thumb over the head, enrapt by the way John moans at his touch and holds tighter.

Then he takes them both in hand, discreetly wiping some saliva onto his fingers and pulling John down and against him. It feels shockingly good, the way they slip against each other. And then just the complete newness and how much shit he’d be in if they were seen like this… Nick can’t really believe it but that’s kind of doin’ it for him too. _Fear as an aphrodisiac. How novel._

John’s hands are on his shoulders, keeping balance with his fingers and brushing his thumbs up against the sides of Nick’s neck. He’s a burning hot weight over his legs, panting and rocking into him with his head tipped down. Just watching.

“This what you were after?” Nick asks, curious after a few devastatingly enjoyable minutes have passed.

“Yeah.”

The shake and strain in John’s voice is far too damned appealing. The angle’s wrong for Nick to see his face anymore, but just from the sounds he can somehow hear what he looks like right now. Imagines it’s not too far off from himself. Damp curls of hair falling over his forehead, eyes almost closed, cheeks flushed, lips parted as he groans through... this. This thing they’re doing.

Shit, might as well just say it. Moaning and jerking off together in his office chair.

Where he’s going to have to work tomorrow.

Nick takes his own slow breath in, holds it, and lets it out with a silent promise to himself that he is not going to be the one to go first. No matter what the manic grip on his shoulders or that gravelly rumble coming from John’s throat is doing to him.

“Yeah, it is. _Fuck,_ your hands are huge,” John breathes. “Look how thick your fucking fingers are. I want those in me so bad.”

And that’s nearly enough for Nick to renege on his promise right there.

Kid’s going to kill him one of these times. Just wind him up too hard and too fast, and pop. That’s the end.

Nick slowly raises his free hand and tentatively wets his middle finger, fully aware of John tracking the motion through the fall of his bangs. The same hand snakes around John’s waist and he feels his way down the cleft of John’s ass. Slides over his hole and he feels the way the muscle twitches and how John’s thighs flex in surprise.

“Wow, you pervert,” John gasps, even as he arches his back and spreads his legs wider.

Nick just presses down harder, teasing around it with the pad of his finger and almost… _almost_ pushing in but not quite. Wanting to make him squirm a little more, hear him like this when he’s barely able to speak. “Shut the hell up.”

“Just do it, man, fuck. I’m probably gonna go off as soon as you do.”

Nick abandons the dual grip he has on them and focuses solely on John, wrapping his hand firmly around him and giving him one long, steady stroke as he slides into him. The curses John lets out are enough to turn the air blue as he throws his head back and shoves down against Nick in response. And he’s so impossibly hot here, the clench of him so tight. Christ.

“Fuck yes. My fucking god, right there” John says, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he sinks down onto him, lips parting when he finds where he wants to be. And now he’s panting for real and he looks so close to the end, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his neck. Beautiful. “Makes you think, don’t it?” His eyes bore into Nick’s as he sways his hips forward and back and Nick can’t look away. He knows what John’s about to insinuate before he opens his mouth again, and yeah. Yeah, it does make him think. “Think about what it’d be like. Stretching my ass around something else? It’d be so… so fucking good.”

And then John’s eyes slip closed, rolling into the back of his head and he makes a long, breathy noise Nick’s not going to be able to forget for a while. He feels John’s dick pulse in his hand and the tight heat of his ass squeeze down around him as Nick’s chest and hand are coated with hot splashes of come. John’s voice doesn’t appear to be working at the moment, but Nick can faintly hear him gasp the words ‘Oh my god, Nick’ as he shakes through it.

Nick slowly eases out, clasping his hand around John’s backside to keep him from sliding to the floor in a sweaty pile as Nick drags the last of it out of him with gentler strokes. He watches the comedown with interest; John’s eyebrows tilting up in the middle and then the way his lips purse and he swallows hard. Flexes his hands jerkily where they’re anchored into the shoulders of Nick’s shirt.

Nick is so, so unbelievably turned on.

John just lets his eyes fall open on the ceiling, throat still arched back and grins at nothing. Sucks a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out in a big, open-mouthed rush. Says, “Fuck. You have no idea how much I needed that.” Then his head tips back down to level and he kisses Nick, loose and sloppy as he runs his hand down Nick’s drenched chest and then curls it over his cock. Mouths over his cheek and ear and whispers, “You still good? Want me to make you come?”

“You’d goddamn better,” Nick mutters into his hair.

John smiles and kisses the side of Nick’s head, bends down and nips the skin right under his ear as he strokes him. “Yeah, don’t worry. How do you want it? Harder than this?”

 _Anything,_ for god’s sake. “Just faster.”

“Alright.” He speeds up just a touch, pressing his lips over Nick’s chest and neck, still playful and pliant from release.

Nick can’t help the way he grabs at the kid; his hair, his shoulder, clutches him closer until John’s laughing and shoving at him so he can keep moving. And the sound of his fist slicking wet over him is just… pornographic.

John doesn’t seem to care though, of course not. He kisses Nick’s collarbone, lazily drags his teeth over it before propping his forehead there so he can watch. Observe just what he’s doing to Nick.

And what he’s doing is mind-numbing. Nick has his hands latched around John’s waist and he knows he’s squeezing way too hard but he can’t make himself let up. He’s so damn close.

“John, I’m—”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know, do it, c’mon. You are so fucking hot, look at you.”

He grabs John even harder as he comes, digging his fingertips deep into his back and thumbs into his hip bones. Feels the relief rushing burning hot through him as he cries out and buries his head in John’s shoulder. Feels the sliding grasp of John’s hand lessen and fall away. Shudders deep and tries to take a few normal breaths in. Nick looks up, meaning to say something awkward and unimportant, and gets stuck instead, watching his own come drip down the ridges of John’s stomach and onto his softened cock in somewhat scandalized interest. Disgusting, but…

John drags two fingers through it and spreads the stuff over the pads with his thumb, correctly tracking what Nick’s eyes are focused on. “Oh, look what you did,” he says, sounding incredibly put-upon, “I’m a mess.” Then he slides his fingers into his mouth and damned if Nick doesn’t twitch at that, not ten seconds out of it. But he really can’t take any more right now.

“Mercy, please,” Nick says. John grins and rakes his teeth over his thumb. “Think I got some towels upstairs.”

John wastes no time in scooting closer to cram their chests together in a clammy, sticky embrace, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Auugh! John!”

“Nice. Let’s go,” he says, completely even, like _of course_ Nick’s going to pick him up and carry him there. Why wouldn’t he?

“You. Wh—. Christ’s sakes. Fine.” Why even argue. Nick shakes his head and hooks his arms under John’s thighs; prepares himself for a journey up that rickety staircase with an entire other human hanging off him. _Can’t even let me relax for a minute._ “There’s something wrong with you, you little monster."

It feels odd to have anyone else up here; no one besides Nick has been in the living part of the building since he’d moved in. Odder by half that it’s John’s semi-unsettling presence to be the first.

When he dumps John onto his bed, Nick glances down for a second before he goes off to get himself cleaned up. Only a second, the kid looking so damn soft and satisfied, and Nick has this lightning-quick, sour thought of _could this ever be someth..._ There like a scrap of shadow on his mind, and then it vanishes with a _no, don’t_ as John raises an eyebrow and gently prods his thigh with an outstretched foot. Nick retreats.

“So, listen,” John says. He’s stretched out with his hand shoved under Nick’s pillow, dry again but he'd only bothered to swipe up his pants from downstairs. Nick’s gotten mostly presentable and found a good perch on the edge of the bed next to him. It’s warmer up here on the second floor, almost stuffy, and he wonders why he’s still buttoning up his shirt. “I originally came here to ask you something. A request, I guess.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

John’s been staring up at the low ceiling, but now he turns over onto his side to fix Nick with a watchful look, chin propped up on his hand. “There’s gonna be a giant party at the Rexford in a few days. Marowski throws them every other month but the big ones are always at the end of the year. And I wanna go.”

“...And you need the name of my tailor. Is that it?”

“Ha. No. I want you to go with me.”

To a big, drug-fueled Goodneighbor shindig. The place where everyone’s armed and on a hair trigger and no one’s heard the word ‘temperance’ outside one of those phony psychic card decks. Good god. True, Nick doesn’t know the first thing about what this is specifically going to entail, but his imagination is already working on overtime to paint him an extremely gaudy and absolutely deafening picture.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather ask someone who actually likes parties?”

“Nah, no way.”

Nick frowns and John rolls back over onto his back, giggling and then quietly crooning out the words ‘only yooou’ in a pretty passable Tony Williams imitation. “It’s our destiny, Nicky,” he says, smiling again when Nick huffs at his singing. “We’ve gotta go and rep Diamond City so we don’t look like losers in front of the other settlements.”

“Not sure I’d be much help with that.”

“C’mooonnn. Live a little.” Nick lets himself be dragged down by the arm until he’s more or less laying down beside John, back propped up on the headboard but still shooting a dirty look at the wall. John’s free hand goes right to fiddling with the row of Nick’s shirt buttons. “Lotta pretty girls there,” John offers after a moment.

“Mmph.”

“Tons of cheap drinks and cheaper hangover cures the next day.”

“Nnrgh.”

“Some pretty good live music.”

“...”

John laughs. “Yeah? That’s what gets you? And how ‘bout this: they play stuff that’s not on the radio.”

That one, yeah, that’s honestly pretty tempting. But Nick’s already dragged this out this far; he’s still not ready to accept defeat. Not gracefully anyway. “Weren’t we _just_ there?” he tries.

“Nooo, that was forever ago. And this time is for fun. Sorry, is there a limit on how often you can go somewhere?” He abandons the buttons and catches hold of Nick’s hand instead, methodically pinching between the knuckles and dragging his thumb across the palm.

Nick sighs. “When is it again?”

“Four days from now. The twenty seventh; starts at sunset, ends when no one’s left standing. Was that a yes?”

Nick rolls his neck and looks down at John’s frizz of hair next to him. “Is that what all this was, kid? Get me all pliable so I'll do what you want?”

John laughs and shakes his head. “Haha, I swear I didn’t plan this. Total accident.” Then Nick feels breath and the brush of lips on the backs of his fingers. He sees John touch the tip of his tongue to the side of his index and fights back a shiver. “Does that work though?”

“Definitely not,” Nick grits out.

“Uh huh,” John says, sounding completely convinced. “But yeah? Yes? Want to? We can see who gets blackout drunk sooner or who can run faster after we break some windows.”

Nick wonders how many of these John’s been to, what kind of insane shenanigans he’s been involved in or been the cause of. Will Nick be dragged down into the depths with him? Will he find a way to keep both their heads above water? Or will nothing at all happen and it’ll just be a nice night with some new tunes to listen to.

“Fine,” he says after a minute of hard thought. “Yeah. If no new crises pop up, I’ll go.”

“There you go.” John pats Nick’s thigh. “It’ll be fun, promise. And if it’s not, you can go hide in your room and I guess I’ll just have to drink enough for both of us,” he says, sounding like it’s the most dreadful sacrifice he’s ever heard of making. After a soft bite to Nick’s finger, his hand slides down to pick at the cloth covering Nick’s bent knee and there’s an audible hesitation before he talks again. “There is one tiny little catch.”

Here it comes. “What?”

“It’s fuckin’ formal wear only.”

Oh. _“Is_ that a catch?”

“I think so.”

There’s probably something suitable (ha ha) in Nick’s closet he could throw on for this. He can cope with tighter fits and a shorter, less comfortable jacket for a night. But for John, yeah, maybe it is. Nick tries to imagine the kid with his hair tamed down, earrings taken out, hands grime-free, and the usual, worn clothes traded in for something sleek with a nice cut and can’t quite come up with a solid image.

“This’ll be interesting,” Nick murmurs.

“A little,” he says, missing Nick’s train of thought. “They keep it in hand. Doesn’t get too much crazier than any other place where you get a lot of people and chems and alcohol together in one big building.”

“That’s… yeah. Not especially encouraging.”

“Lot more naked people maybe.”

“Ah, even better.”

“And fist fights.”

“Look, I already said yes, are you trying to put me off this?”

“Just don’t want you to be surprised when one of the girls rubs her tits on you and starts bullying you into buying her a round of shots. It’s gonna happen.” John catches Nick’s hand again, but instead of doing anything lewd, twists his wrist around to check his watch. “And look at that, I should probably head out; I’ll be missed. It’s one of those rare months where someone actually gets pissed when I don’t come home. Weird,” he says with a laugh.

John rolls up and starts clambering over him, pressing down on his chest as he goes so Nick can’t stand up first. Nick waits ‘til he has one foot on the floor then snags him by the arm, pulling him down to one knee before he can escape.

“Thank you for the invite,” he says.

John’s eyes crinkle up in a bemused smile. “Yeah, you seem so thrilled about it.”

Nick pulls him in closer, laying a soft kiss against his still-smiling mouth. “Okay, thank you for thinking of me then.”

“Well, you seem like you need some excitement in your life, handsome.” He puts a warm hand on Nick’s shoulder and returns the kiss, growling when Nick nips him with his teeth and shooting a dark look from under his eyelashes. “Don’t you get me started, Nicky. Not unless you wanna go again.”

Nick shakes his head in resignation.

John grins. “Thought so. Meet me at the apartment ladder at around noon? Four days.”

“I’ll be there.”

Nick trails down the stairs after John and watches him right-side-out his shirt and cram it back on with a few quick movements. Tosses his jacket over that then raises an eyebrow as he pats his pocket. Stepping back into his boots, he plonks a handful of whatever was in the pocket down into an unused ashtray; something metal, too heavy to be bottlecaps or coins.

“Back-up plan just in case I had to resort to bribery,” John explains, glancing up with a wink toward Nick. “Thought they might be useful if you run into any more synths out there. See ya.” And then he zips up his coat and the door snicks closed behind him.

Nick pushes the lock in after him and goes to see what he’s being bribed with. It’s one of his own .45 cartridges along with five flat, starburst-shaped metal discs. He smiles as he picks one up and frames it between his thumb and finger. Moon clips for quicker reloads. Thoughtful little punk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Just wondering, any interest in a future little chapter or two from John’s perspective just for fun? If only to hear him internally gush about how hot Nick is or how he’d be alright with letting him softly strangle him to death. Or should I just stick with Nick’s POV? [Inquiry answered. There will be some of this in a separate but associated fic in the future.]
> 
> Another note: I think the boys might end up spending a majority of their time in Goodneighbor. Wasn’t really my initial intent, but there’s just so much cool shit that could go on there.
> 
> Final note: ‘Kartoshka’ is Russian for potato. While not a usual term of endearment, I spied it in a good ol internet comment somewhere about a guy calling his girlfriend that for fun and it made me laugh.


	13. Prep

_December 27, 2280 12:15 PM_

 

John’s late.

Or no, scratch that. Maybe it’s the other way around and Nick’s early; it’s been a while since he’s had the means to check if his watch is correctly calibrated.

This entire outing had gone largely forgotten by Nick the past few days, too busy with shelving and cleaning and experiencing the odd, but charming Christmas festivities the city puts on. But last night and now the morning of, it all came back with a vengeance; he’d stared at his bed-frazzled self in his mirror, pulling at the deepening crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and showing his teeth in an apathetic snarl and that was pretty much the start of a solid what-the-hell-did-I-agree-to mood. It slipped into a maybe-it-won’t-be _-that-_ bad by the time he finished breakfast, a guess-it-wouldn’t-hurt-to-start-packing-already shortly after that, and now it’s kinda come around and matured into a cautiously optimistic I-wonder-how-drunk-I-can-get-before-I-start-looking-like-a-shakedown-target.

The black metal grating creaks below Nick as he shifts forward into a more comfortable position. He has his legs poked through the bars of the apartment’s fire escape and he’s swinging them like a child, pant cuffs whipping in the wind as he watches the ruined section of street for movement. It’s a hell of a long way down, he observes; the huge distance between him and the mossy pools of water below inspiring a sudden wish for a handful of stones or the like to chuck off the edge. Not even the resident mirelurks are out right now. Nothing but a pack of skinny, loping dogs ranging around out to the north for potential food.

It feels a bit different, going over to Goodneighbor for fun rather than work. Not as combative or laced with paranoia for one thing. Neither are really things that can be entirely gotten away from, but the thumping drive to _go_ isn’t present and there’s no overhanging cloud of urgency or danger. Feels a little bit lighter.

He takes a slow pull on his cigarette, the smoke and white of his breath momentarily obscuring his vision. It’s hell on the lungs when it’s this cold out, but sacrifices must be made. And there... Nick spots something new, way, way down and squints to see it better. It disappears behind a truck pile-up and then reappears edging around a newspaper machine closer down the block. Nick recognizes that gait (and the little spot of sunshine color among the drab). There he is; the mischief has arrived.

“Yo, what’s the haps, Nicky? Been waiting long?” John asks minutes later as he drops down next to Nick and slings a loose arm around his shoulder. There’s a fresh scrape on his temple, smear of dry blood leading up into his hairline, but his eyes are alert and there’s a wide smile on his face.

“Nah. I’m just watching the local dog population flourish.”

 _“‘Flourish’,_ huh? Is that code for something?”

Nick ignores him and shakes another smoke out of his pack, wordlessly holding it out. John plucks it from Nick’s grasp with a brisk ‘Yes, thank you’ and leans in to cup his hand around the match. His knuckles are scraped raw; Nick fights down a weird urge to kiss them.

He stares off after the dogs instead as the leader sounds a low howl, hollow with distance, and they race off down the street as one, all rough pelts and clawed feet skittering over the asphalt. Might be time for the two of them to get a move on too. Even with the sun overhead and John bunched up next to him, the wind is lancing cold right through Nick’s clothes and racing up his pant legs.

“Hunting and barking, an unending search for more. Is there ever rest?” he intones, tracing the last of them as they whip around a corner.

John turns to raise an eyebrow at him but Nick just shakes his head and smiles blandly off at the horizon again. John’s fingers pat out an uneven rhythm against his knee for a few seconds.

“My ass is freezing... and you’re making dog poems. I’m numb on both ends,” is his answer.

That startles a laugh out of Nick, probably louder than it should be out here, but the response is surprising and besides that, it’s just very _John_ of him.

John laughs too, though more at Nick’s reaction than anything else. “Y’like that one?”

“I’m impressed,” Nick says. “Where’d you learn haiku? At the school?”

“Yeah, I guess. Miss Edna taught us; pretty neat.” John waves his hand like he’s brushing away the topic, wisps of smoke trailing after it. “You got your gear?”

Nick reaches around and unclips his bag to make sure the carefully folded clothes _(costume,_ his mind helpfully corrects) are still there. His fingers skim over the hard edge of a fancier pair of shoes than what he’s got on and a flap of soft wool tucked in next to them. It had been easy enough to track down a few nice items from the old ruins of the shops and boutiques looking out onto the river. Not too many people out looking for silk ties and whole cut Oxfords these days.

“Locked and loaded,” Nick says, rolling his arms back. “Think we can get the same room again? Kinda liked that one.”

“Ahhh, can’t. Can’t stay at the Rexford this time; they don’t do nightly plus rentals when these are going on.” John grins. “Hourly only.”

“Gotcha.” Nick takes a moment to pity the cleaning crew who’s gotta deal with that. And then distantly wonders if John partakes in that kind of thing. ‘Course he does. And why is Nick’s jaw tensing up? He flicks his cigarette stub out over the rail and watches it end-over-end until it’s out of sight. “Wanna get a move on? Or at least relocate somewhere inside? You’re not the only one with a frozen lower half.”

“Rarin’ to go, huh. Knew you’d ease up on it.”

“Yeah, I... somethin’ like that.”

“Well, let’s get to it.” John scoots backwards and swings upright, ushering Nick through the door behind him once he stands. “And I’ve got the hotel this time.”

The door falls shut on the quiet shrieks of wind and seals them into the dark and silent again. The air is stagnant and stale but it’s warmer. And it doesn’t feel quite so forbidden to talk in here this time.

“You sure?”

John tosses Nick a flashlight and clicks on his own. “This is my outing and you are my guest.” He leads them along the long hallway, feet naturally weaving around the trouble spots. “Dibs on the softer pillow though, I’m not _that_ much of a gentleman.”

“Fair enough.”

 

_December 27, 2280 2:00 PM_

 

It’s easier to get into the city this time. No scroungy kid hanging over the wall to give them the third degree, just a mountain of a woman in the customary slacks, wingtips, and machine gun ensemble who looks over the both of them with a silent, disinterested sneer and waves them through. And Goodneighbor itself is quieter this time, in volume at least. Quieter (though that’s not saying a whole lot) but with a low charge of anticipation threading through the relative calm of the dense swarms of people. After they get themselves fed, it’s a bit of an upstream swim to get over to the tallish brick building John’s chosen for accommodations.

The room is simple and small with pen scribbles on the bed frame but it’s fine for why they need it: a place to leave their bags and later a bed to fall into. And more immediately, a changing room. Shed their skins and turn into something strange for a night.

The sound of low, muffled talking and footsteps come through the walls and ceiling, someone with a bad cough a floor down, and there was a trio of women who looked like they wanted to sell something haunting the end of the hallway right next to the stairwell. Inside is just like the streets outside, absolutely crawling with people. Nick might feel a little claustrophobic if he were the type.

“Got any last minute advice for me? Something more specific than don’t drink anything I didn’t watch get poured and make nice with the doorman?” Nick asks as he shrugs off his trench coat and bids it a silent adieu for the night. Seeing it shaken out and draped over the back of the lone chair in the room makes him think Clair may have been right. This one’s been stained and patched and restitched so many times it’s barely even presentable for just the day-to-day.

John snorts. “Happy to share my vast wisdom if you help me knot this bullshit in a minute. Damn thing got undid and I didn’t catch Charlie before he went to work.”

Nick looks over a shoulder to see John with a dark red tie pinched between his fingers, holding it out like it’s a questionably dead snake. He’s already got his pants pulled on and there’s a shirt slung around his shoulders, but everything’s unbuttoned and flapping loose.

“Sure, I can do that,” Nick says. He turns back to pull his bag open as the tie gets tossed aside, listening to John’s voice and the whisper of fabric behind him.

“Well, here’s a good one. If you buy anything, ask prices up front; never wait for after. Seen some nasty fights start over something as stupid as that. Saw one guy get his beer bottle smashed over his head and then stabbed with the rest of it right after.”

John chuckles to himself and Nick winces. Good rule to follow at any time, but yeah, easier to forget at certain moments.

“And speaking of fights, try not to start any shit if you can help it, especially if you don’t know whose face you’re in. At least,” he rapidly ticks off a count on his fingers, “six, seven people I can think of right now where that would be a death sentence. I’ll back you up if it’s some asshole off the street, but if you wanna go fuckin’ around with Kendra I’m gonna have to give it a miss.”

Kendra. That’s a name even Nick’s heard of. One of Sinjin’s; cold, tough as nails, and a really, _really_ good shot if the tales from city security are anything to go by.

“Think I’ll be able to restrain myself.”

“But there’s no actual weapons allowed in. We’ll get patted down at the door.”

“Assume everyone’s packing anyway, though, right,” Nick says. John gives him an ‘Exactly’ as Nick buttons his coat and smooths down the front panels. His hair’s still a windswept mess from the walk over, but the clothes are on and seem like they fit. Cuffs fall about where they should, not too tight across the chest, little bit of pinch in the shoes but it should be fine for a night.

There hasn’t been much call for this in the past, just the occasional get-together when the supe’s office decided it was time to refresh the “goodwill between the factions” and pile a bunch of cops and tech fiends and quasi-military all in the same space, but maybe this’ll be a bit less awkward than that. It better be. Nick shakes his head and turns around to John tucking in his shirt tails and jerking his suit jacket on over everything. The impatient way he’s doing it suggests he’s uncomfortable as all hell. He looks good though, easily hitting stylish even if he’s missing the mark on tame, and Nick says so.

John barks out a terse laugh, but looks up and smiles anyway. “Not too bad yourself. Never seen you in blue before.” He then curses good-naturedly as he realizes he’s buttoned his shirt up unevenly.

“What else. Don’t—” John continues after fixing his error, then moving on to grabbing his hair in rough hanks and tying it all back in a loose ponytail, “Don’t touch any of the couches in the back if you don’t want your dick to fall off and never open the stall doors in the bathrooms if they’re closed. Like, even more than usual. You’ll either see something you didn’t want to, get punched or slapped, dragged inside, or maybe all three. Okay, think I’m ready for this. Come on, leash me up.” John beckons him over, flipping the collar of his shirt up and hooking his tie around his neck.

“Alright.” Nick walks over and reaches out to gently push John’s shoulders back when he just stands there. “Straighten up, and get your chin out of the way, please.”

John immediately goes ramrod straight, snapping his heels together and his arms down to his sides like a soldier awaiting inspection. He tilts his head back at a sharp angle, baring his throat as Nick rolls his eyes and moves up to start the knot.

“Mockery will get you nowhere, kid,” Nick mutters. He purposefully tugs on the two ends to just barely knock John off balance and make him stumble forward. Nick starts methodically folding the thing into shape as John catches himself and sticks the tip of his tongue out.

“That’s not true.”

“Nowhere you wanna be,” Nick clarifies. He looks the kid over as he works. Probably give him a pocket square and a set of cufflinks before they head out; there’d been all sorts of fun, useless trinkets like that in his closet. He finishes the last loop, threads the end through the knot, flattens John’s collar back down, and snugs the knot up to the hollow of his neck. And then he doesn’t let go.

And here he is. Here they are. John’s still just looking up at him, waiting, but something changes in the look in his eyes and the set of his body when he notices he’s not being released. He licks his lips and his words come out in a hoarse murmur.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not true.”

He might have a point, Nick thinks as he sets his other hand on a slim shoulder. It’s possible.

This isn’t exactly a unique position. Nick’s grabbed ties before, snatched big, angry handfuls of shirt and jacket to demand answers right now god damnit, but until now he’s never used it to pull someone in and kiss them. It’s not bad. Kinda fun. He can appreciate why it’s happened to him a few times.

John huffs against him and Nick can feel his lips curve up in a smile under his. He clings closer to Nick and lets him slide a thigh between his legs, nudging them closer together as Nick moves his hands over John’s chest and slips the material of his lapels through his fingers. Down the lines of his jacket, then curling over his hips to drag him into a slow, hard grind that has them both groaning at the friction.

“I, uh… mmm,” John says, humming into Nick’s ear as he moves to kiss the far end of John’s cheek, then down his jaw, and then to press his face into his neck. Nick feels like he’s drowning in John; in his scent, in the feel of his skin, in the rasp of his voice.

“Yeah?” Nick prompts.

“...was gonna ask if you wanted to go pre-game, but if you… you’re…” All his breath rushes out as Nick’s teeth dig into his ear and his hands smooth over hips to trace the soft join of leg to ass. “...yeah. Fuck.” John laughs shakily. “You got a thing for suits or somethin’, man? You’re gonna be in a whole lotta trouble once we get over there.”

“I’ve got a thing for _you,”_ Nick shoots back. And then almost immediately wishes he could withdraw the words in case John takes them seriously. Because he’s… it _is_ serious, he realizes.

Not an admission to make right now, but it’s gotten to the point where he’s started thinking about the kid at the oddest times and wishing he was around. Missing the twangy tenor of John’s voice against his ear and the feel of his skin or his hair under Nick’s broad hand. Or even just the way he tips his eyes up to Nick’s when he says something off-color or the way he snickers into his fist at any of the vast amounts of things he finds amusing. Wishing… or just _thinking,_ what if that was all only for him.

Yeah. He’s got it. Maybe not got it bad quite yet, but it’s a work in steady progress, obviously.

Nick smothers any possible response by covering John’s lips again and kissing him with enough overblown zeal that eventually John has to break away, laughing and wiping at his mouth.

“Should we go though? We’re gonna be late,” Nick says, smiling faintly. He still has his arms wrapped around John, one hand at the small of his back and one that ended up in the kid’s back pocket, but holds back from any further grabbing. He’s made his intentions fairly clear; John can follow up if he wants.

“No, we’re fuckin’ not. No such thing as late.” John grabs Nick by the forearms and slowly walks him backwards ‘til the backs of his knees collide with the bed. “Sit.”

Nick sits. John drops to his knees in front of him with a quiet but decisive thump.

“Got plenty of time, it’s not even dark yet,” John says. Hands pull his belt apart and John slides Nick’s pants just a little ways down, whispering ‘That’s it’ as he does it. Nick sucks in a breath when John leans in and drags a canine over the fabric covering his thigh. “Few years ago I mighta had to worry about them pickin’ me up for curfew, but not n’more.”

Damn, this is maybe the worst time to ask. “How old _are_ you?”

“Take a guess, why doncha,” John says. His hand is warm and heavy on Nick’s cock, stroking it lazily as he rests his head on Nick’s leg to look up at him. It’s hard to hold his gaze, the way Nick’s eyelids keep fluttering closed. “See how close you get.”

“Twenty-four?” he says after a few seconds of just breathing and trying to keep his hips in check. It’s a generous estimate, but he can hope.

John laughs, presses his wet lips to Nick’s skin. “Mmm. Nope. Too far.” Then closer and closer ‘til he’s mouthing up Nick’s balls and setting delicate little kisses up his shaft that make him twitch as each new one lands. “If we’re goin’ old world rules, I’m not even legally allowed to drink yet.”

Oh, hell. _“Jesus,_ John,” Nick says, the words quailing into a weak whine. That little discovery sends an awkward flood of… something through him. That old chestnut shame, most like. But weakness prevails and he keeps his hand right where it is on the back of John’s neck, digging up into his curls and the other clenched in the blanket beside him; unwilling to let him go. John just huffs, amused, sending a little jet of air against his legs.

“‘M twenty. Got a birthday in March.”

Nick can’t really think to say anything. Just a long, drawn-out ‘sheeeesh’ that ends with him dropping his head back against his shoulders. God, he _is_ a kid, a _teenager_ just a year ago, and damn it to hell if he doesn’t get his mouth around what he’s been teasing at for the last few minutes Nick’s considering pulling on that damn ponytail or something equally rude.

“C’mon,” John says. “Everyone knows field level kids grow up fast.” And he smirks at the face Nick’s making, but that’s… Jesus, not goddamn reassuring at all. But then... shit, he can’t keep track of where that thought wanted to go. He just groans brokenly as John tongues around the head of his dick and then pushes himself all the way down into Nick’s lap, fingers clenching on his legs and lips dragging soft and slick around him.

Nick loses himself in it, his hand sliding from John’s neck to his shoulder, pushing under his jacket to rest on the stiff, white cotton and feel the heat of his skin below. Just concentrates on the wet, slippery attentions being lavished on him; only squirming when John runs his hands up the very bottom of Nick’s thighs, soft and almost ticklish before moving back to dig his nails into the flesh above his knees or down to squeeze his calves.

 _Twenty,_ the thought swims back unbidden as he feels that tell-tale flare of heat. _Met women with another decade or two on them that weren’t this good._ And he’s still dimly dwelling on it minutes later when John adds a hand into the mix, thumb pressing up and rolling just right against the underside. Nick curses quietly to himself and thoroughly messes up John’s hair from all his grabbing and pulling. The tiny, pleased noises John makes in reaction and the way he pulls Nick in deeper and harder is enough to finish him right there. Nick drops his hands away and lets his head fall back again, eyes closed, breathing like he’s in the middle of a quarter-mile sprint, and comes hard. John’s hand tightens where it’s wrapped around his thigh and he swallows as Nick shudders and moans; he can feel John’s tongue and throat convulsing around him.

John pulls off of him, swipes the back of his hand over his mouth and chin, and leans back on his heels, looking up at Nick with a smug look on his face. His lips are swollen and friction red and Nick bends forward to kiss them.

“You’re… far too good at that,” he says against the skin of John’s cheek.

The smug look evolves into a wide, aren’t-I-hot-shit grin. “You fuckin’ know it.”

“Uh huh,” Nick says, but he can’t help but respond to the grin. “Get up here.”

John comes willingly when Nick pulls him up by the arms and manhandles him onto his back on the bed beside him. Complains a little when Nick starts pulling his clothes open and shoving his shirt up, but it’s completely half-hearted.

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “I finally got all this shit on right and look what you’re… fuck, man.”

“Just tragic,” Nick agrees.

“I kno-ohhh…” He trails off into a long, drawn-out groan as Nick wraps a hand around him and starts moving. It’s really incredible, the way he looks with his hair a tangled, half-tied up mess, shirt rucked up under his armpits, and pants tugged partway down his straining thighs. Nick leans down on his side next to John and kisses his forehead, drags his lips down the side of his face as he strokes him.

“You’re gorgeous, kid, y’know,” he whispers.

John makes a faint noise like halfway between a sigh and a ‘fuck’ and turns his face to slot their lips together again, kissing him greedily and fitting his palm over Nick’s cheek. And Jesus, those little sounds he makes, drowning out the shouts and faraway rattle of gunshots that occasionally filter in from outside. Quiet, light moans and gasps like he’s experiencing perfection, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Nick knows that can’t be the real truth of it, but damned if he doesn’t love hearing them anyway.

John eventually manages to hike one foot up on the side of the bed to make it that much easier to drive his hips up toward Nick’s fist. Nick’s still staring at him, watching his eyes stutter around whenever John opens them, watching the way his mouth hangs open and how he rolls his tongue over his lip to keep it wet, the way his stomach bellows in and out with his breath, and how he arcs against the bed. Just watching and pushing him along until John’s hand clenches on the corner of Nick’s jacket and his moans go louder and longer; until he breaks apart and he comes hot and slick over Nick's hand and his own heaving stomach.

Nick drops all the way down to the mattress and tucks his head into the join of John’s neck and shoulder, scratching his face against his starched up shirt and kissing the fragile spot on his throat he can see still hammering away with his heartbeat. They lay there for a few minutes, content, Nick thinks, and listen to the shift of life in the rooms surrounding them.

John’s the one to break the long silence, awkwardly scrunching his neck to look down at Nick, murmuring, “You’re not fallin’ asleep on me are you?”

Nick grunts. Not really, but he could stand to lay here for a little while longer. He buries his face into John’s fluff of hair and squeezes his bare hipbone with a sticky hand.

“You better not be, we still have a fuckin’ party to get to, remember?”

“Have to?” Nick grumbles, but he’s smiling as he does it.

“Don’t fuckin’... Don’t make _me_ be the fuckin’ responsible one. Get your ass up, Nicky.” John laughs. “And you better help me tie my fucking tie again, look at this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to go ahead and add dates and times to my chapters/chapter divisions. I’ve got a list of them in one of my .txts, but maybe it’ll do good to keep them here too. I’m probably doing a bad job of laying down the narrative if readers don’t just know when things are happening, but whatever. Iunno, not a big deal. Happy Monday!


	14. High-End Chems, Beautiful Clients, and Ooh.. the Parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel like this chapter’s a little bit everywhere so strap in, lads. Hope it’s not too much of a rambly dialogue/event hodgepodge. I gots problems with transitions.
> 
> And I know, Fred wasn’t canonically around for when Marowski was a big shot party dude, but I like the guy and I need him in here for reasons. Also we’re henceforth pretending the Rexford main level has a bit more floor space than it really does. I need that too. 
> 
> Little late, but happy Independence Day, Americans!

_December 27, 2280 6:00 PM_

 

If the Rexford main lobby can be called elegant at normal times, right now it’s absolutely extravagant.

It’s not packed yet inside, but it’s on its way there, more and more people slowly filtering in from outside and coming straight over from the state house. Humans and ghouls of all shapes and sizes fill the streets and the bars and the Rexford itself. A sea made of brightly-colored gowns and dresses, gold and silver and gemstones that have long since lost any serious value but still make for fun decoration, all shades of cotton and tweed and silk and cashmere, the shine of leather, sequins, feathers, on and on.

Long swathes of filmy white fabric drape from the walls and ceiling, blowing around in the weak air currents and lending a kind of soft, dreamy look to the room that isn’t normally there. The last few rays of sunlight from outside fall on the cleaned and polished brasswork, reflecting gold-orange light and a mellow shine back onto the walls. Another new (and surprising) addition to the room is mirrors. Several tall, uncracked mirrors have been attached to the walls, possibly to help reflect the light around. It’s plenty bright in here now thanks to all the sources, but looking even further up Nick can see where dozens of smaller strands of unlit lights stretch across the room at second floor height, criss-crossing in layers over the chandelier and fanning out to every wall.

The couches, chaises, and armchairs have been cleared away in favor of little round tables and dark wood chairs where several groups of people have already laid claim and are sitting and talking. They’re arranged in a wide, loose arc focused around a low, newly-constructed wooden stage on the far left wall and a row of instruments. A sleek, black piano lurks next to the stage, and alongside it stacks of huge, anonymous leather cases, a microphone stand, and the metal skeleton of a drum kit. Nick spots one table among the rest as his eyes travel back around being conspicuously left alone by the wandering party-goers with a small tent sign in the middle that reads _‘Reserved’._ And he’s got an idea or two who that could be for.

And then to the right, the bar in the corner is looking very inviting, all glittering with glass and the different transparent earth tones of alcohol and a rainbow of mixers. He’s not really sure what he expected when John had first asked him here, but it certainly wasn’t all of this. It’s a nice surprise.

Nick gets a gentle elbow in the ribs and then a sly grin when he looks over.

“Nice in here, huh. Yeah. Watch, it’ll get real filthy before the night’s up.”

“Lookin’ forward to it.”

John snorts. “I bet you are, you animal.” And then he jerks his head at the bar. “Grab a drink with me and spy on the people for a bit? Get some gossip in before shit really kicks off?”

Nick puts a hand on the aforementioned elbow and steers them off to the right.

They get their drinks (whiskey and water for Nick, some hideous concoction of vodka, Quantum, and mutfruit juice for John) and pick out one of the tables closer to the center of the room to crowd around. It’s tough to really concentrate on any one person among the whirlwind, but Nick tries as John presses up against his side to rattle off names and descriptions and raunchy half-stories.

“Oh, shit, there’s Rufus. I always kinda thought that jumpsuit was just part of him, but I guess it does come off sometimes.

“That guy. And so is… that lady. And that one in green. Look, you can see the outline through their jackets.

“No! Hell no. If you need weapons around here you gotta go to Kleo. Pretty sure if you try to buy from one of those assholes or anyone that’s not her, she like, appears under your bed when you’re sleeping. Fuckin’... lasers your foot off then calls you a crybaby when you’re screamin’ about it.”

It’s even tougher to concentrate when John’s not preoccupied with his glowing drink. His hands wander around almost as much as his eyes do; rubbing over his tie, tapping the side of his chair, and they wind up idly sliding up Nick’s leg under the small table once or twice. After one close call Nick has to lay his own hand over John’s and give him a sharp warning squeeze. “You better knock it off,” he says, leaning over to murmur into John’s ear. It sounds threatening but they’re both kind of holding smiles in the whole time. Giddy, he’d say; the energy in here is infectious. “The lines of these things aren’t exactly forgiving and I don’t wanna be stuck hiding under the table for the rest of the night.”

That nearly makes John choke on a gust of laughter, and he keeps his hands mostly within safe territory after that. Mostly.

“...there, that guy with the burn on his face. He’s an ex-raider and I’ve seen him knock out two guys with one punch, don’t ask, but if you get him drunk and just chat with him one on one he’s such a sweetheart. Got a bunch of cats at home he treats like little babies.

“...can’t believe she didn’t think to put her pants back on _before_ running out after it and…

“Oh ho. _That’s_ unusual.” John swats Nick’s arm before he can turn his face where John was just looking. “Shh. Don’t look. Up on the second floor overhang there.”

Nick looks, in the most roundabout way he can and sees two people leaning over the rail. One smoking and one nearly up on his tip-toes whispering to the smoker. They look more mismatched than a cat and a sentry bot.

“The me-sized guy is the mayor’s son, Angelo. Not… really sure what he does besides stay at home and avoid people. Probably rolls around in piles of guns and bottlecaps and touches himself, I dunno. You never see much of him, and when you do he’s got that exact same I’d-kill-you-if-I-cared-enough look on his face. But I’ve never seen him actually go after anyone.”

Angelo is— yeah, John-sized might be a pretty apt description— a long-legged, brown-haired guy in a slim-cut tan suit; very willowy, especially next to the hulking figure beside him. Quite unremarkable looking, but if the rumors about his dad have even a grain of truth to them, he must be a. pretty set and b. no one to trifle with.

“And the ghoul next to him who’s built roughly like a fridge wearing a suit of armor...”

“Sinjin?” Nick guesses.

“One and the same. He lives and works here but he’s in with a lot of the raider camps in the area. I dunno why they don’t string him up, let alone listen to him but they do.” John pauses and takes a long drink. “No, that’s not true, I know why. He’s like the absolute worst of all of them together plus he’s smart— knows how to plan and he’s got at least a little bit of business sense so he’s way scarier than the usual run-of-the-mill fucks. Plus, he could tear any of ‘em apart with his pinkies. Wonder what they’re talkin’ about.”

If the look on Sinjin’s face is anything to go by, they’re talking about absolutely nothing. The guy is completely stone-faced, staring out impassively over the packed hotel lobby while Angelo hangs on his armored shoulder and gestures around, talking very quietly but animatedly. It’s kinda weird.

But there’s not a whole lot of time to dwell on it; the noise of the crowd shifts into interested chatters as a group of about a dozen or so people all matching in white and silver file up toward the stage and start opening the cases lying on it. A few of them laugh and chat to the people nearby as they unpack and snap things together, but a dark-haired woman in silver sequins leaning over the mic stand is the one that really gets into it. She plays the crowd, swaying and smiling and reeling them in close and enrapt with her voice and the swing of her hair.

“Who’s _that?”_

“The band, Nicky. That’s why they’re touchin’ the instruments and stuff,” is John’s completely even reply.

Nick shoots a look at him and he cracks after a few seconds, hiding his smile with his drink. “Aah, I don’t… I think it’s mmm… one of those flower names. Dahlia? Heather? ...Marigold? Was that it? I think she’s new with these guys. Only seen her one time before. But mm, sexy, right? Maybe you should go ask her. Get her shortwave frequency.” John flutters his eyelashes at Nick as he takes a sip.

Nick watches as she leans in closer to hear something one man says and then laughs uproariously when his lady companion smacks him on the arm. She laughs even harder when the lady takes the singer by the hand and kisses her knuckles, shooting a taunting look at her man. Nick grins a little at the silent production.

“That’s alright, looks like she’s got enough on her plate right now. I’ll just admire from afar.”

John scoffs. “Pff. Yeah, _that’s_ the way to go. Look, you need me to wingman for you? I am all over it—”

“Johnny!”

They both turn toward the call, Nick grateful for the interruption, to see a guy in rumpled clothes with stained sleeves and hands (definitely not a guest then), a round, pleasant face, and long shags of grey hair walking over to hover next to John. “Hey, man! Thought that was you! It’s good… _great_ to see you. How’s it goin’?”

John stands to meet him and wraps an arm around the guy’s shoulder in a friendly half-hug, thumping him on the back. “Up with us commoners already, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s almost t— Whoa.” He pauses and refocuses on Nick, blinking owlishly like he’d just materialized there. “Who’s this? New customer or somethin’?”

_Customer?_

Nick gets to his feet and puts a hand out despite the confusion, smiling partly for politeness’ sake and a little more at the rolling slur of the guy’s voice. If that and the blacks of his eyes are anything to go by, this gentleman is quite toasted.

“Nah. Friend of mine from the city. Fred, this is Nick.”

“Detective Nick Valentine,” he confirms. Nick vaguely recalls John mentioning going to see a Fred the last time they were here. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, far out! Nice to meet _you,”_ Fred says, accepting Nick’s offer for a shake. The guy smells like smoke and some faint echo of bleach. “Fred Allen. I’m the, heh, I guess resident chem artist.” _Oh,_ Nick thinks. _Customer._ “I work the lab downstairs and keep the mood around here topped up. Well. I try.” His face falls a little and lets go of Nick’s hand, speaking to both of them again. “Mind if I sit for a sec?” John pulls the remaining chair out with a flourish. “Thanks. Usually I’d get it, being out here on the floor, but I think Clair’d rather have her space while she can. But uh. Yeah. Had an ugly execution the other day and that kinda bummed everyone out, so this’s good. Good timing.” He gestures at the smart decor and the increasing volume of people flitting around them. “It like, gets folks’ spirits up again.”

“No shit. Anyone we knew?” asks John.

“Oh. Nope. Some traveler had a uh, sticky fingers problem and Daze called it out and the triggermen came down on the guy and… man, you know what happens after that.” John hums. “It was a mess. Then Daze caught a wild bullet in the foot and _that_ didn’t help the situation any. God, I didn’t know anyone could scream that loud.”

Fred shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the image away before perking up again. “Yeah. But, so yeah! I’m a little early up here but I got all the good shit all set up and nothin’ more to do in the magic factory, and look.”

He points over at the front desk. It’s covered in a few long, embroidered red cloths and piled high with… Jesus… Nick looks a little harder and it’s more chems than he’s ever seen together in one place. There was never half that many or that kind of variety in the evidence lockers, not even during bust week. But beside all that, behind the cleaner and neater part of the desk is Clair, in a light blue suit and some kind of sparkling clips decorating her hair instead of her usual, currently staring daggers at the pile. And then at Fred when she looks up and realizes he’s pointing right at her. He plays it off horribly by reaching back to scratch at his ear.

“Eep. See. Doesn’t want me near until it’s showtime. Maybe I’ll melt her heart and we’ll be friends one day, but I don’t think it’s gonna be tonight. I’m not like, feelin’ the song of success right now.”

John solemnly pats Fred’s arm. “I dunno whether to tell you to keep at it or back off, man. She’s tough.”

“Probably have some luck if you do both,” Nick suggests.

“Both?”

Nick shrugs. “Be around her but be professional. Strikes me as someone who values competence over pretty much anything else.”

Fred groans and sweeps his flyaways down under the shapeless hat he’s wearing. “See, that? That’s a problem all on its own. Me and... I mean… her standards couldn’t be any higher if you gave them a jet hotbox. But it’s cool. It’s cool. I’ll make it through the night alive and we’ll see who makes the bigger stack of caps when it’s all over. What’d’you guys think. Room rentals or alcohol or,” here he pauses dramatically, “the fruits of the finest chem lab in Boston?”

“Not enough info for a real guess, but you’re here now, so the vote goes to you,” Nick says.

“And I think I’m a little biased, my dude,” John adds. “You know you’re always number one in my book.”

Fred laughs at that, and then jerks and half-rises from his seat. Nick follows his line of sight to a girl urgently beckoning from a now-open door in the far wall.

“Uh oh. Looks like something’s up. And the thing’s about to start too, shit.” Fred sets a quick hand on John’s shoulder. “Come see me later though, okay? Man, I’ve got somethin’ new that’ll blow your mind.” Then he’s hurrying off through the crowd, bumping into people and making bleary apologies.

 

_December 27, 2280 7:50 PM_

 

They sit and continue to watch the band tune up as the sun sets, John escaping for a few minutes to pick up another couple of drinks from the bar (these a bit more heavy-hitting) and calling out hellos and laughing fuck offs to a few people that walk by. Nick basks, satisfied and calm with John’s familiar sprawl beside him; John's left arm reared back and fingers touching Nick’s right shoulder as the drummer conjures a shimmery, expanding noise from one of his cymbals and the sax player and the pianist run through some quick scales together.

At peace.

When he glances over at John, John looks right back, matching the quiet smile on his face and squeezing his fingers together on Nick’s shoulder blade in a light pinch. Soft little movement to say ‘Yeah, I’m here’.

If there was one moment since meeting John that Nick desperately wanted to lean in, hold the kid’s chin in hand, and slowly, softly kiss that smiling mouth… this would be that moment. As it is, all he does is hook his thumb over the back of John’s chair and seal up an image of the way he looks right now. Knees butted up casually against the table edge, the glint of small silver hoops in his ears and Nick’s borrowed cufflinks in his sleeves, lower lip sucked back through his teeth, fingers loose around his glass. Damn everything.

Then there’s an amplified sputter from the set of speakers up by the stage and most of the room’s attention is directed forward. The band, all twelve of them, are standing in their places with their hands at the ready looking both loose and fiercely excited. The lead steps up to the mic and hangs a hand on it before giving her mates one last glance to see if she’s got the go-ahead. The drummer spins a stick between his finger and Nick can see him say, ‘Whenever you’re ready, darlin’’. She turns back around with a radiant smile for the fan of tables in front of her and the restless shift of the rest of the room.

“Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” comes the rough silk of her voice, and the crowd murmurs a scattered, but confident greeting in response. As she speaks, the band behind her starts picking out a quiet tune, adding a soft melody and backbeat to her speech and drawing everyone in a little more. “It’s always, _always_ good to be back in Goodneighbor with all you lovely people. I think we’re about ready to get this thing going and on it’s way.” Some light applause as she shoots a glance at the very back of the room, and the lights seems to flicker in response. Apparently that’s the answer she wanted because she sways up even closer to the microphone and tucks her hair behind her ear with a nod. “Thank you thank you. And now it’s time to get a little closer and give a hello to that beautiful girl or guy you’ve got your eye on because until you do, we’re all just strangers in the night.”

At her last word, two things happen. The volume of the music swells, solidifying into a lavish surge of brass and strings that wash out over the room and at the same time the house lights fade into smoky darkness.

Weirdly enough, it might have been worth all the headache of getting here and getting through door security just to witness this first bit of theatrics. If, back at the office, John had said ‘man, you gotta go just to see this cool shit they do with the lights’, Nick probably would have been seriously puzzled and then laughed at him. But right now, below and within it, it’s a little different.

The entire lobby is dark, filled with barely visible grey shapes, and then the tiny strings of lights he’d observed earlier brighten to life in an even wave. Pinpricks of illumination fan out overhead, looking like low-hanging stars suspended only a few feet above them all. The hanging curtains still wisping around in the slow-moving air pick up some of the glow and give a faint impression of drifting clouds. And the mirrors on the walls are perfectly angled to reflect and multiply it all, the faux night sky appearing to extend well beyond the actual limits of the room.

A spotlight illuminates as the singer joins in, turning their outfits dazzlingly bright. They cruise through the song effortlessly, playing well and adding their own little spin on the music with the woman’s voice soaring above it all.

The effect of it all is enthralling, to say the least. The otherworldly atmosphere, the soft scratch of the drums, the violins and trumpets thrumming through the air. It feels good to be lost in something like this along with the rest of the murmuring audience. Nick raises his eyes to the ceiling and unfocuses; lets it all flow through him, able to still barely feel the heat of John’s hand through the fabric of his jacket.

“Pretty good, right,” comes his voice, close by and pitched low. “I’m not even a big music guy and this is always worth being around for, I think.” John giggles quietly. “Gotta love a flashy introduction.”

“Pretty good,” Nick agrees. Understatement there; he could probably sit and finish up the night right here if allowed. Watch the girl singing swing her hips and the band flash and gleam behind her.

And that’s almost what ends up happening. They sit and watch for a time, drinking and making quiet conversation each with their hands just barely touching the other. Eventually, John spies someone across the room and makes a break for it (“Oh, there’s— Nick! Hey, you gonna be safe without me for a while?” “I dunno, I might get dragged off if I’m left alone. No, yeah, go on. Have fun; I’ll catch up with you later, kid.”), so Nick settles in and gets comfortable as the band starts in on a Dean Martin number he hasn’t heard in ages.

It’s impossible not to also eavesdrop on the conversations ribboning around him from the other tables and passing people. Mostly nonsense. A woman complaining about the unbearable noise in here, another trying to clumsily flirt with one of the plainclothes security, a guy in a red shirt hanging off another man’s arm and trying to tell him _something_ through a fit of giggles and hiccups. Mostly nonsense, but a little later when he hears a low, angry voice the next table over say, “The _fuck_ did you just say to me?” and sees a nervous hand creeping toward a waist, Nick decides this might be an alright time to take a slow wander around the room or even go outside for a quick smoke.

He manages about a half-circuit around the room before the fuse he’d seen being lit finally detonates and a few shouts rise up over the din of the performers and the audience. Looking back over at the area he just vacated, he spots a chair being flung at (and colliding with) one unfortunate gentleman’s lap (which earns a sympathetic flinch from Nick) before security descends and muscles the still-yelling combatants away from the crowd. An unrelated party commandeers the fallen chair for their own table and things continue on like nothing happened; the band didn’t even falter a beat.

“A Rexford fete without broken furniture and at least three groin injuries is considered a dull affair, you know,” comes a raspy, amused voice from behind him.

Nick turns around to see Daisy standing behind him, arms folded across her chest and an exasperated smile on her face, like the party-goers are her unruly kids she has to watch out for. This is really a night for double-takes and raised eyebrows. She’s in a ruffled yellow dress that clings to her slim waist, miles away from her usual business clothes, a short half-jacket wrapped around her shoulders, and there’s a gilt enamel pin in the shape of her namesake holding her hair to the side.

“Yeah, I had to get out of there before mine was the second casualty,” Nick says, smiling wider when she chuckles at him. He extends a hand and she takes it. “Daisy, you’re looking exceptionally lovely this evening.”

“Well, thank you. You clean up pretty nice yourself. Almost didn’t recognize you without that old hat of yours.”

“Not up to dress-code standards apparently, had to leave it behind,” Nick says, jokingly bitter.

“Oh, I know the feeling. I can’t wait to get home and into my pajamas and some warm socks instead of these heels.”

“Please, don’t let me get between you and your pajamas.”

“No, no. You’re not. I’d love to stay and talk if you’ve got a minute or two.” Then quieter she adds, “I have to make at least a quick appearance when these are on. It’s in my contract.”

“Contract?”

“Not a real one,” she says, waving a hand. “Spoken agreement. Me and the other, well, managers? I guess is a good word… we all have to show up for a while. Though it always seems like _I’m_ the only one that really follows through on that.” She sighs. “I’ve personally been here since this morning and haven’t seen a trace of anyone besides Marowski hours ago and then Angelo lurking around the back office... but he doesn’t really count. I had to help out with a few different interesting headaches here, though why Marowski doesn’t just get his own lackeys to get these big things finished up I don’t know. Probably because he’s coming to the realization everyone else already had: they’re all dumb as a bag of rocks, give or take a few of them. Stan and Trish do pretty well.”

Nick pointedly looks around them. “Well, whatever kind of headache it was, I think the effort was worth it. Looks fantastic.”

“Ah, you’re sweet to say so. It did turn out alright in the end. And they actually got the lighting cues on time tonight.”

“They did. That was really breathtaking." He looks up again and admires the sky-in-miniature as they talk. "Manager of what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Daisy smirks in a kind of here-we-go look. “My own area of expertise? I’m the trade liaison with the caravans and Bunker Hill and couriers from further out. Keeping our own merchants and visiting traders safe and in line, checking inventory to make sure no one’s mislabeling their poisons and explosives, that kind of thing.”

“I had no idea.” Nick shoots her a sly look. “So you’re a big hot-shot around these parts, huh?”

Daisy tuts at him and rolls her eyes. “Nothing so glamorous, it’s just work. But trading _is_ a big part of the livelihood for Goodneighbor, yes. We don’t do farming or ranching, no real production here except for Marowski’s team of chemheads and their projects. It’s just drugs, raiding, and the goods that flow through. Not the nicest,” she adds, “but it’s lucrative alright.”

Nick’s considering offering to buy them a couple of drinks when Daisy stills and looks like she’s listening for something. Applause dies away around them and he can hear the singer speaking on the mic again.

“...one orchestra that’s impossible to forget. Well, we don’t have quite the numbers that Glenn Miller commanded, but we’re trying our hardest out here and I think we’ll do him proud.” She laughs as someone calls up some slurry encouragement at them. “Exactly right. Here’s a little song about taking a long, long journey just to see that one special gal, even if you have to go all the way to Kalamazoo to see her.”

“Oh,” Daisy says, touching his shoulder as she perks up and looks over toward the stage where the trumpets just began blaring out something loud and almost sassy-sounding. “Oh, I love this song. Haven’t heard it in years and years.” She looks like she might be blushing if she could, but she keeps her grip firm and her dark eyes on his as she says, “Not to make assumptions here but if you know how… care to dance?”

Nick swallows down a pang of nerves and tries to think of the last time he actually danced with someone. This might be disaster. But, nothing ventured… “Fair warning, I’m a little rusty. But if you lead, I’ll try not to embarrass us too much.”

Daisy laughs. “I’ll keep us in line. Let’s show these young bucks how it’s done.”

Nick offers his arm and she takes it, ushering them both up through the people to the little semi-circle of emptier space in front of the stage. At least the spotlight for the stage isn’t fully on them, he thinks, a light sweat already springing out on his back.

“Nothing fancy,” she assures him as she presses their hands together and touches his side with a gentle nudge, and then they’re moving.

It takes a moment or two, but just concentrating as hard as he can on following Daisy’s lead (true to her word, she keeps it simple) lets the rest of the room quietly fade away to just the two of them together under the lights and above the smooth wood floor. The song isn’t bad either, bouncy and fun as the two of them sashay about in a rough circle; Nick laughing because he’s doing an alright job of not stumbling or mis-stepping even when doing this whole thing backwards and Daisy laughing at his surprise. Light-hearted. That’s how he feels.

“So is this it?” he asks as he finds his feet and decides to trust himself enough to put them on autopilot. “Is this the draw, why you’re still sticking around all day?”

“The music?” Daisy grins. “You’re damn right. Sometimes they dig up an oldie I haven’t heard in decades or more and it’s just… oh, you know. A nice callback to bygone times.” She tightens her hand and gives Nick a very gentle dip, pulling him back upright with ease and continuing on. Nick snorts and she wiggles an eyebrow at him, then just sings quietly along with the song for a moment.

“Yeah, it’s the music. I love the… well, just the way it brings back so many old memories. Fills your soul and gives you energy and makes you feel at one with everyone. And then there’s always the getting blackout drunk after, of course.”

Nick throws his head back and laughs, still cackling when Daisy stretches them out in a wide sweep. “A woman after my own heart,” he says when they swing back together.

“It’s the only way to get through these things,” she insists. “The city’s so damn loud all night the only way to get any shut eye is to knock yourself out once you’ve done the good parts. ...And just hope none of the drunks come crashing through your door.”

“Does that really happen?”

“Enough for me to sleep with an extra shotgun rigged up on party nights? You bet your boots it does.”

“Good lord.”

She rolls a shoulder, the one his hand’s resting on. “Just how it is.”

“I’m curious now. Do _you_ like Goodneighbor? Living here? Seems like it’s awfully rough.”

Daisy almost misses a step as she’s overcome by a bout of giggles. She recovers gracefully and gives him a shrewd look through the laughter. “Nicholas Valentine, did you just ask me ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this’?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could twist it around that way if you wanted to,” he says with a shamefaced grin. “Well?”

“Well, for starters, young man, I don’t think I’ve ever described myself as ‘nice’.”

The song comes to an end with one final loud fanfare and the spell of isolation is dissolved by the suddenly loud sound of clapping from all around. A few people in the crowd lean forward to pat the both of them on the back, and even the few of the band that can spare two hands are applauding. Nick grins and kisses the back of Daisy’s hand before they separate. She rolls her eyes (but smiling all the while) and mutters ‘Easy, Romeo,’ before tugging on his arm to ease out of the lights and sift back into the crowd. She pulls them over to that mysterious table with the ‘Reserved’ sign on it and they sit, only a little winded.

The singer laughs, low and throaty as she lowers her own hands back to her sides. “Nice moves, you two. Another round of applause for Goodneighbor’s own wickedly stunning Daisy and her very mysterious and very handsome partner?” They get it; Nick blushing and Daisy shoving a hand through the air in an oh-stop-it motion.

“Just get on with your set, you flatterer,” Daisy calls up.

“Every word is true,” the singer says with a wink before speaking up to address the room again. “But here we go, back to it. Let’s go with something slower now to cool down all you carousers and rabble-rousers. A sad little song from the Lady herself: Oh, Lady Be Good.”

Daisy turns an appraising eye back to Nick. “You’re a lot better than I thought with how nervous you were acting.”

“Eh, long-returner’s luck. Muscle memory,” he says. With Jennifer. That’d been the last time. He’d gotten a promotion and she’d grabbed him and they’d danced around wildly in his apartment’s cluttered living room, only stopping once someone pounded up against the floor to quit it some of us have work in the morning. Nick smiles a little.

“Well, whatever it was…” she just nods. “Haven’t done that in years, no one around here really knows how or cares to learn. And you still got it, mister.

“But, back to your question,” she says, picking up the table sign and looking at it for a moment like it’s got the answers. “I do like it, living here. I have a good niche carved out, if I do say so myself.

“I was an accountant, back before, and did a bit of stock trading on the side. So stepping in here to shape up the boys' club and make myself indispensable seemed like a smart enough move. It’s worth the danger and the loud nights.” She pauses and her eyes go far away for a moment. Nick leans in to hear her when she speaks more softly. “Plus, I grew up around here. Got married here too. Had a nice little brownstone over in Back Bay. It’s all rubble now, I still go back to look at it sometimes, but I always liked the area. Felt like I owed it to Boston to stick around.”

“To look after it,” Nick says.

Daisy nods, a little sad. “To look after it.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep it under your hat, Valentine. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

Nick puts his hands up. “Hey, secret’s safe with me.”

Daisy laughs and then stretches down to rub the skin under the strap of her shoe, face hidden for a moment before she straightens back up. “Well. Are you sticking around for a while?”

Nick makes a cursory glance around the room, realizing he hasn’t seen or heard from his companion since he got up nearly two hours ago. He’s not entirely sure what the plan was there. Were they going to leave together or split up and head back to the room individually when they couldn’t take any more? Probably should have discussed that before he lost him.

“I think I am?”

“I’ll have to wish you good luck on the rest of your night then, I’m about tapped out. Looks like everything’s running smoothly, and if Marowski doesn’t like it, he can do this alone next year, see how that turns out,” she grumbles.

Then brightening, she stands and Nick follows along with her, leaning in when she takes both his hands and pecks him on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, sweety. Maybe ask Magnolia if she’ll do ‘Georgia on My Mind’. The Django Reinhardt version if you want to kill that poor guitarist or Ray Charles if you feel like crying. And whatever else you do tonight, don’t order the suicide shots back there,” she says, nodding toward the bar as she steps away. “They’re cheap but also exactly what they sound like.”

 

_December 27, 2280 9:50 PM_

 

A few beers and whiskey shots later (no suicides) and Nick’s feeling like the evening’s about rounded out. The band’s still doggedly trucking along after a few interspersed breaks, he went to check in with both Clair and Fred when they had a free minute or two, listened in on enough Goodneighbor chitchat to last him through the new year, and he’s now really, comfortably drunk. There hadn’t been a hazardous amount of fighting, but Nick can feel tensions wind tighter as time goes on and the hour gets later. More raised voices, more teeth being displayed without smiles, more shoves that don’t look too friendly, more ‘accidental’ wardrobe malfunctions and groping, just more insanity in general. Good time to quit while things are just ominous and not yet hostile.

Even amidst the rest of the chaos, John somehow makes himself easy to find when Nick decides it’s time to really look around for him. A few minutes of crowd scanning tells him he’s probably not on the main floor, but as Nick weighs out whether he should try upstairs or just head back, the slightly louder sound of shouts and screamy laughter direct his eyes upward to, of course, the kid being partially dangled over the second floor rail. He’s being held up by two other people and trying to take a shot while upside-down. Clair’s also looking up at the trio from right underneath them and Nick’s pretty sure he hears her yelling up that she’s never seen anyone act like bigger idiots, do you all want to get your necks broken? (Translation: I’m very worried for your safety and well-being, won’t you please come down from there?) Fred’s next to her just grinning goofily at it all.

Nick starts pushing through the crowd, watching John and his precarious position the whole way. He’s twisting around with glass still in hand and using the other to blow a kiss down to Clair and saying he’s sorry but with a grin on his face that says that’s almost certainly a complete lie. By the time Nick makes it up to the little second floor balcony, John’s right side up again, flopped out on a couch with his leg kicked out across a black-haired guy’s lap. He’s laughing and holding his head and the guy has a hand curled around John’s bare ankle where his cuff is ridden up. _Hrn._

Feels a little awkward to walk in on their gathering, like maybe he’s supposed to have a flashlight trained on them while loudly asking what they’ve been doing this evening, but Nick picks his way around and takes a careful (swaying) knee next to the low side of the couch to put a hand on John’s arm. He starts at the touch but relaxes when he realizes who it is; John’s two companions ease back down into their seats as well when they see that the big stumbling guy’s not a threat.

“Hey, kid.”

John smiles and looks like he’s about to reach back to cup Nick’s face in his hands, he even tips his chin back before he catches himself and stutters to a stop. Turns it into dropping one arm back over the couch arm and pushing the escaped strands of hair out of his face with the other. The smile settles a little. Still warm and lovely, but not quite the where-have-you-been-all-my-life look it just was.

“Niiick, hey, there y’are.” His eyes widen and he swats sideways at Nick’s sleeve. “I saw you and Daisy! You were very… mmvery nice. Didn’t know you could dance.”

He’s pretty damn drunk. Nick can relate. ...Though maybe there’s more than that going on. Voice gone soft around the edges and movements just a bit too exaggerated, sure, but his eyes are twitchy and he keeps rubbing the same spot on his arm.

“Thanks,” Nick says with a small smile.

“So, what’s up? You good? Sorry I didn’t come back earlier, I got a little um.” He gestures at himself, his red eyes and rumpled shirt and Nick takes his meaning very well.

“It’s fine, Daisy was the only one who dragged me off.” John laughs and nods. “But I think I’m done for the day. It’s gettin’ a little too rowdy for me in here.”

“Yeah? Already?”

“Already nothin’. We’ve been out here for about four hours,” (John scoffs at that, whether unbelieving or unimpressed, Nick doesn’t know) “and the natives are getting restless.” Nick might not be ready to sleep, but the drinking, the constant noise, and being around so many people at once has definitely sapped his reserves of energy… life force… whatever. “My idea of a wild night these days is having five and a half drinks at the Dugout and watching the merc companies play chicken with each other. Yeah, I’m gonna head back.” Nick rolls his eyes into a smirk as John makes a quiet, burbly noise that sounds a little like _‘booo’._ “Still got your key?”

John aims a loose slap at his breast pocket. “Nnyep, I do.”

“Alright.” Nick glances around at John’s friends and their collection of drinks and other mystery containers. The girl in the chair with her feet propped out on the table looks nearly identical to the guy next to John, he realizes. Same dark eyes, lanky bodies, and laughing mouths. She lets her eyes travel from his face to his chest, then lower and back up. Nick raises an eyebrow at her before looking back to John, feeling slightly more off balance than he just did. “Don’t get into anything too awful.”

“Naah. Not with these guys.” He giggles up at Nick and shifts his hips. “Think they’re gonna be just the right amount of awful.”

Nick’s not so drunk he doesn’t catch the movement and the extremely blatant innuendo there. But that… that is not any of his business and he says as much.

John’s eyes go sharper and that purr in his voice gets laid on a little thicker. His hand touches Nick’s where he’s hanging onto the couch, fingers hot. “Isn’t it? Don’t wanna stick around with us and have some fun together?”

_Oh. Whoa, now._

“What kind of fun would that be?” Nick says slowly, chuckling without any real humor in it. It's all nerves, that laugh. “Hanging me over the rail and dropping me on Fred?” Just a simple are-you-serious disguised as obliviousness, but he knows they all know and can feel his face flushing hotter with the war between jealousy and embarrassment that’s being waged underneath. John’s grin slips even wider at him and the girl snickers and slowly uncrosses her legs.

“I think we could keep a hold of you,” she says.

Her doppelganger on the couch tips his eyes at Nick, shoots him that exact same hungry look his sister has and moves his hand a little higher on John’s ankle, rubbing his thumb over the pale skin. “Yeah,” he says. “We could take you, easy.”

Drunk or not, this is… way too out there. It’s not disgust or fear that he feels, just discomfort; unease and the suddenly strong need to back away rising up strong and clamoring at him. _Say no, say goodnight, exit. Now._ Nick swallows heavily. “Appreciate the offer, I really do, but I think I gotta decline, folks. I’ve had enough, hung by my ankles or anywhere else.”

“Well,” John starts as Nick pushes up against the couch. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Nick says.

“...then I guess it’s nighty night, Nicky Nick. I’ll be there when I’m there.” Before he can stand all the way up, John catches Nick’s collar and brings him back to whisper to him, low and intimate under the drifting noise from downstairs. “Maybe next time, huh. Mmmh, and you look pretty fuckin’ tasty right now, I think is the general opinion around here. Watch out for wandering hands out there.” One of his fingers brushes Nick’s throat and a harsh prickle races up the skin he’s touching.

Nick just barely shifts closer to the caress, nudging the side of his hand and whispers back, “You’re insane.” He wants to tell the kid to be careful… but even now he can see when John’s like this, deceptively languid and dark-eyed with intent, all a warning or a question will do is make his contrarian side come out. So in place of that, all he has is some meaningless quip, “And it’s too late for that, I’ve already been pinched a few times.”

John cackles and lets him go, sticking his hand up as Nick rises to his feet. Nick sighs, but gives him the high five he’s looking for. His feathers have been thoroughly ruffled (through no fault of theirs, they’re just doing what they do) and it’s time to get back to the room and unwind from this… from the whole night for a while. John grins and wriggles himself deeper into the couch cushions as he digs through his pocket. “Don’t wait up.”

Nick glances back on his way over to the stairwell. “I know better than that.”

“Smart,” the girl says.

Nick smiles at her a little mechanically and at the guy still holding John’s leg, hand wrapped around his calf now. _He’s not yours,_ he adds sulkily in his mind. What is it? A warning to himself or to these other two? Both? Neither? It’s ugly and mean, whatever it is. Cut it out.

“Keep it real, guys,” he says aloud, feeling the pain in his chest twist in a little harder. They both tip their glasses at him and down their drinks in response. John gives him an unreadable look as he heads around the wall and drags himself toward freedom.

 

_December 27, 2280 10:00 PM_

 

The smell of the Rexford clings to him as he shoves through the doors, alcohol and heated skin and smoke but it’s quickly pushed away by the freezing night air. There’s barely even any time to enjoy the initial shock of it before he has to gently wave off the girls and boys loitering around the entrance looking to hitch a ride with solo party-goers on their way home. The coos turn a little nasty when Nick doesn’t stop for any of them, but it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. _Personal insults,_ he thinks as a kicked fragment of concrete goes skittering by him. _The sad but consistent weapon of the rebuffed._

It takes an unusual amount of time to get himself oriented and on his way back to the hotel. He’s very drunk, it’s very dark, and the building itself is over on the north… no, northeastern? ...east. It’s the east side of town. Goodneighbor’s small but dense, and he wends his way through the streets among the few other people staggering their way around the maze as well.

Probably the next block up, that’s where it is. It was brick with a big white sign out front, and this stretch of buildings looks familiar. This shack, this steel drum, that uh. _What is that._ Nick turns and sees a shuffle of movement off to the left, something moving too fast and confident to be a fellow drunk. A low groan and a soft thud come from a dark shape rolling around on the cobblestones, two Goodneighbor guards standing over it.

And apparently he’s looked a little too long, cuz the next thing he knows, one of the suits is calling over at Nick.

“Got something you wanna say, drunky?”

Hoo, no. Not to two ...yeah, armed fellows late at night with no one else around and his own weapon locked up in a room down the street. But the guy on the ground… hell. Nick raises his hands in placation, putting a bigger slur on his words than what’s naturally there and tries to sound like as much of a friendly, idiot drunk guy as possible. Which he is, kind of, underneath the newfound heat in his skin and louder heartbeat.

“Hey, just take it easy with that guy, huh pal? It’s the holidays.”

It doesn’t work. The plea or the redirect, the both of them too keyed in to be distracted from their prey. The talker turns to fully face him, big hand very visible on his gun.

“Yeah? The holidays can kiss my fuckin’ ass. Keep movin’ while your legs still work, asshole.”

The second guard swings his foot back and kicks the grounded guy’s kneecap. Even from this distance Nick can hear it give with a sick snap and the breathless scream that erupts.

Jesus.

 _Sorry, fella,_ he thinks. Nick does keep moving, resigned and hoping the guy’s tormentors get bored soon. _It wasn’t enough but I tried._

There’s one final shout of ‘The fuck outta here’ tossed out as he moves out of range.

He’s briefly thankful that John isn’t with him, that he didn’t just see or hear any of that. From the way he talks, if he _had_ been here, this little walk might’ve turned out with the both of them with holes in their heads. Or with Nick wrestling John away as he screamed insults and ugly threats at the two guys. Good kid, but there’s a lot lacking in the self-restraint department. He still can’t tell if he likes that about John or not. Makes for some interesting events at any rate.

A small flare of impotent anger jolts through him as he walks away, amplified by the alcohol in his system and then soothed by what’s left of his higher thought. That’s just things. You can’t save everybody, can barely save yourself most times. He frowns as he finally turns the corner and starts up the steps to the hotel. Not a new thought, not at all. And it’s still as bitter as it ever was.

This damn city. Hell, this damn _world._


	15. Bites and Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like, if I may, to quickly say thank you to [Kallika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kallika) for her questions and comments and suggestions. Very helpful in scooting this thing along. Thanks, my dude :)

_December 28, 2280 1:25 AM_

 

John makes it back up about three hours later. Nick hasn’t quite managed to fall asleep yet, but it’d been a close thing a few times. Being nicely drunk and calmed down again and curled under the covers had nearly put paid to him, regardless of the residual street noise and the book still cradled in one limp hand.

Nick lays his book aside as he hears something coming up the hall, honing in on that collection of sounds unique to wandering feral ghouls and the abysmally drunk and tracking it through the thin wall to see where it stops. There’s already been a few of the same in the past hour, though all turned out as false alarms. Footsteps drag and catch on the hall’s carpet runner, scrape of fingernails and rasp of palm on the wallpaper, a grunt and a giggly mumble after a low thump. And now the scrabble of metal on the door plate outside. When the sound of the key doesn’t quite make it into the actual lock after about a minute (the clattering punctuated by a few mournful sighs), Nick takes pity and slips out of bed, cloudy and warm and still pretty off-balance himself to pad across the dim room in sock feet to unlock the door.

He braces an arm against the door edge and looks down at where John’s clinging double-handed to the frame, head down and key still poked out between his fingers. He looks a bit like he’s asleep standing up.

“Welcome back, kiddo.”

John’s head lolls back, slowly tilting along his shoulder until one eye is uncovered from under his curtain of hair which has somehow gone straggly and frizzy at the same time. He grins. “Nnniiiiiick, hello,” he says, taking a few cautious steps into the room. “Guess who it is!”

“Hmm, can’t tell under all the booze. Got somethin’ you’re tryin’ to forget, huh?” Nick is already prepared for a battle with John, to force him to drink some water and then cram him into the bed behind them, but feeling cheerfully ready for it. He should be annoyed, maybe, at the _state_ he’s in but it’s easier and more natural to just be glad the kid’s made it back in one piece. Even if that one piece is very, very inebriated.

“Hey,” John protests, brushing against him on his way by. And he smells like sex; reeks of alcohol and perfume and a riot of other things. “I drink. Because it’s fun. Maybe someday I’ll do it cuz I hate myself, but today? Is not that day. No, it’s not. I am… the best.”

Nick closes the door and keeps pace with him as John lurches forward and tries to strip down as he goes. He manages to pull the knot of his tie out halfway, leaving it as a big hoop around his neck; successfully drops his jacket to the floor with a soft whump; starts trying to work on his shirt but the buttons are too small and fumbly for his fingers; then skips his pants and goes right for the shoes, overconfident and forgetting that you can’t stand on them and take them off at the same time. That one causes him to pitch forward and Nick grabs him and pulls him back before he can faceplant onto the chilly wooden floor.

He hangs on Nick’s forearms and just leans against him for a moment, breathing hot against his stomach. “I d’nno ‘f… think I can move.”

It’s funny. Drunks taking care of drunks. They could go on the road with this.

“C’mon, keep goin’. Bed.” Nick tries to push him upright again, but the kid’s doing a pretty fine imitation of a jellyfish and just folds over his arm. He nudges him.

“Kid.”

The clear and well-spoken answer to that is, “Nuh.”

Well, he was prepared for this too. Nick grabs a firm hold of John’s arm and bending down (fighting briefly with vertigo), hoists him up in one smooth movement over his shoulder. John huffs, whether at the shoulder wedged into his stomach or the indignity of it all, Nick’s not sure.

“God’s sake, where the hell do you keep all this weight, you tiny little sandbag?” he mutters, mostly to himself as he almost stumbles under the limp and unhelpful body.

From behind his back he hears John hiccup quietly and mumble, “My giant schlong, eyyy…”

Nick snorts and crosses the room, carefully rolling his cargo down onto the bed after he kicks back the covers. He stares down at John’s sprawled-out figure and blows a sigh out over his lip. There’s something so vulnerable in his face right now. His mouth is open just a fraction as he breathes and those pale, all-seeing eyes are closed for the moment; the sockets dark and rubbed red and the skin there looking so thin.

Nick kneels over him and finishes the job of pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt. There’s a deep pinkish red stain all up the left sleeve and John’s somehow gotten one of his cufflinks threaded through a buttonhole. Nick spreads the shirt wide and instead of moving to pull John’s arm through his sleeve, he stops. Looks down at the revealed skin.

Teeth marks on his neck and shoulders. A bruise over his collarbone. Faded red stripes in groups of four cross and curve down his chest and sides. He thinks back to the boy on the couch with the razor wire smile, and the girl in the chair with her long nails ticking against her glass as she eyed him up. Imagines their hands grasping and sliding over John, their mouths on him, sucking that mark into his skin, clawing into his ribs.

It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. He’d known exactly what the three of them were about to get up to, possibly only minutes after he left. Not exactly reactor science there. For crying out loud, John had gone right for angling for sex in a rented bar bed the second time he and Nick had ever spoken to each other, hadn’t he? And then hunted him down just two days later and sucked him off in his office with someone else’s fading handprints around his neck.

Nick hadn’t fully put two and two together at the time, too busy almost hyperventilating with a near-stranger’s hands on his bare, shaking thighs, but it had come to him much later, staring into an empty glass and thinking about the heat of John’s tongue and the faded freckles on his cheeks. Exactly when that dark circle of bruises had been put there; why he’d turned around and gone right back into the Dugout after Nick had refused him.

He knows. He knows this is a truth that’s been there from the start. But staring at the evidence, so much of it all over him and so close Nick could drag his own short nails right over those garish marks, could fit his own teeth around the dotted circles of marred flesh, it’s so hard to ignore.

But he’s going to.

Going to let his eyes slide right over it and past it.

Nick rolls John’s shoulder up and tugs the sleeve over his arm. Kinda flops him on his side, fishes the shirt out from under him and peels the rest of it away. The claw marks continue even worse on his back. Nick breathes out.

He unlaces John’s shoes, pulls them off, tucks them around the corner of the bed. Socks off, folded into his shoes. Pants unbuttoned and slipped down and there’s more teeth. Red and livid right up the pale insides of his upper thighs.

“You mad at me, Nicky?”

Nick jerks and looks up to see John watching him, blond lashes almost touching those dark swipes of skin under his eyes.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks softly.

“No,” Nick says, face burning. “Why d’you think that?”

John shrugs a shoulder (one of them bit him there, wrapped their jaws around that little curve of muscle and sank right in) and shifts around on the bed. “Lookin’ at me.”

“No…” Nick trails his fingertips down John’s neck, touching those sacrificial runes and sigils decorating his skin, pressing his palm down over his heart. “Mad at myself, honey.”

The endearment slips out unbidden and Nick nearly winces at it, but John either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His sleepy expression doesn’t change. “Oh,” he says. “Why?” And that one word breaks the weak floodgate holding his thoughts back.

 _Because,_ Nick thinks, increasingly frustrated with himself. He catches his tongue between his teeth before it can start running away and slinging poison to the four winds without him. _I put you at arm’s length right from the get go and now I want you all for myself, and I can’t have you. Can’t ask it of you or myself._ That’s _why I’m mad, John. You’re more than happy to give me your body but that’s not… not quite enough anymore. Seeing you like this hurts and it doesn’t make any damn sense but that’s what it is._

You _didn’t do anything. It’s me. It’s always been me._

God, he’s really a mess. A selfish, drunk mess.

And now is not the time for it. Neither of them are in a state to have any kind of serious discussion, especially not about this. John’s almost drooling on himself and even thinking about that glut of angst is making Nick’s throat tighten up uncomfortably. It’s all an ugly mishmash of alcohol-stoked hangups and contradicting reasons that jumble and coil into some stupid knot of self-absorbed garbage.

“It’s... a secret,” is what he says aloud. It’s pretty sad that _that’s_ the best he could come up with, but Jesus, John’s so out of it that he accepts it… just like that. He’s probably not processing much of this; that or he’s operating on some entirely different level where what Nick just said makes sense.

“Mmm. Secrets.” The kid nods like he’s been granted some deep insight. “I know all about those.”

Nick closes his eyes. _Nothing has changed._

This is just reality. A reality he’s been trying to hide from, but it’s right here in his face right now. Staring up at him with beautiful, sleepy eyes and a gently smiling mouth.

Nick could stay in this mood, let it swallow him up and he could just seethe about it ‘til he falls into a pointlessly angry, restless sleep, or he can try to let it go for now. He can deal with it. And not let it leak out.

If only to keep that look on John’s face.

Nick rubs his thumb up and his fingers down where his hand’s still resting, pinches the skin of John’s chest, sighs and smiles back a little. “Yeah, I’ll tell you later.”

“Hrmm?” John’s own hand slides limply off the bed; he watches it go with interest. “Tell what?”

 _Case in point._ “How much did you end up having back there?” Nick’s never seen John this drunk. Never really seen anyone this drunk and still trying for consciousness and speech. He leans in to pick up John’s dangling arm and lay it next to his side again. John drags his finger up the outside of Nick’s leg, plucking at the cloth like he’s not sure what it is.

“All of it. Drank it all, everything. Ate the ressst.”

Nick snorts. “Sounds about right.” He bends all the way over and reaches for a mostly-full bottle of water he stashed on the floor next to the nightstand. “Here, sit up for this, okay?”

“‘Kay,” John says, sounding perfectly agreeable but apparently lacking the coordination to do anything about it. It’s a struggle, but Nick pulls him upright and keeps him there with a palm on the middle of his back. John has the presence of mind to fling his arm over Nick’s shoulder and curl his fingers into his t-shirt so he doesn’t slide. Which also puts him in just the right spot to scoot himself in and drop his head onto Nick’s shoulder, pushing the bridge of his nose across his throat and then up so he can breathe over the collar of his shirt. “You smell so good,” he whispers. Then Nick’s wrist is grabbed with a surprising amount of strength, ground against the bedspread. “Drink whatever y’want if you come ‘n lay down with me.”

Of course John’s in a goddamn mood (even after the night’s escapades, my god), but he also seems like he’s at that point where if you just keep him horizontal for a little while and don’t say anything, he’ll be out within a few minutes. And jeez, he’s not gonna be feeling good when he wakes up, no matter how much hydration he gets. Nick kisses the top of John’s head, hoping for soothing rather than inciting. “I’ll lay down.” He wiggles his wrist. “Gotta let me go first, though.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

When the light’s snapped off, the darkness presses in and amplifies the quiet around them, making it big and oppressive, like a solid thing. It sounds like a trespass when John rolls over. Creak of the boxspring, rustle of John’s limbs sliding through detergent-stiff sheets, his breath crawling up Nick’s back as he draws himself as close as he wants to. Which is real damn close. He molds himself around Nick’s back, legs tangling around his and hips pressing into his ass (where there is some semi-firm interest nudging against him).

For some reason, that same ponderous fear from the night they’d drank together at the Dugout comes back to his mind. Not the same cause or depth, but the same nervous, shallow-breath feeling. Nick is teetering on the edge of control and John is so gone he’s barely even awake. It feels… horribly wrong for him to be curled up against him so close and warm like this. And wrong for Nick to be responding to the closeness. Just all around not a great idea.

John mumbles something into his back. Nick can’t hear it, but the words heat his skin through the cotton and John gives his hip a squeeze as punctuation. He almost wants to leave it; it’d probably just been a ‘goodnight, I’ll try not to puke on you’.

“What was that?” Nick says into the thick silence of the room. The darkness makes everything so loud.

John rolls his head up and back around, shifts up and crushes in so his lips are touching the skin right behind Nick’s ear. Nick shivers and feels a wave of goosebumps rush down the nape of his neck and over his back. John’s arm snakes under his to touch his chest and his next words are very clearly enunciated, snapping in the quiet.

“Said, do you want,” he pauses here to drag himself up tight against Nick, just John’s briefs and Nick’s loose sweats separating the two of them, “to fuck me. Nick.”

“John, no—”

But he continues on like he doesn’t hear, the breath of each word a scorching brand against Nick’s neck. No matter how drunk he is, he can still do that low, dragging, velvety voice. The one that sounds like pure mind-control. “Get me on my knees and loosen me up just a little,” here he flicks his tongue against Nick’s ear, making him flinch, “pin me down and push in, evennn if I’m not quite ready.

“Just try! Try and hurt me; wouldn’t even feel it right now,” he says. John drags his fingers over and pinches Nick’s nipple, earning another flinch and a strangled groan. Nick reaches up and catches John's hand so he can’t do it again; their hands balled up over his pounding heart as he silently shakes his head. “Or, no. You’re not like that, huh. You’d… heh heh, hah. You’d _hold_ me, wouldn’t you. Prob’ly do it all gentle and sweet.

“Or I could fuck you, if you want,” he slurs on, dragging his dick up against Nick again in blatant invitation. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and the initial gut reaction to twist away from the hard slide, to turn around and relocate the kid to the other side of the bed for that, it’s there but not… as strong as it should be, maybe. _How the hell much did_ I _drink,_ Nick wonders.

“Y’want me to?” John says. The words creep soft and slow over Nick’s skin. “I’ll do it real fuckin’ nice, you’ll wish you'd asked me sooner.”

Nick finds his voice again and it’s rough. _“No,_ John.”

“Why not?”

He can _hear_ the look on John’s face right now, the pout he gets when he’s suddenly denied something. Nose wrinkled up just a bit; lips twisted up on the right side; intense, unamused stare.

Even with one perfect, shining reason to say no (and more than a few for the second thing on offer), it’s still achingly difficult to stick to his guns. Here, in this completely anonymous room with his blood up and a hot, very willing partner breathing down his neck. He squeezes the kid’s hand in frustration before letting him go. _Why do you have to do this to me?_

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, how could he not. Many times and in great detail, though always in tiny, disjointed snippets; filthy film clips.

Fingers smoothing over pale, slick flesh. Holding an ankle where it’s hooked over his shoulder, turning his face inward to kiss up a slender calf. A hand splayed out over heaving ribs. Pink lower lip sucked hard against a row of teeth. Bone-deep tremors and the pound of blood as someone topples over the edge—

“I’m not gonna… No, not when you’re like this, okay?” Nick says. His breath is still coming in a bit short.

John sighs, alcohol-scented air blowing past Nick’s face. “I’m too drunk, huh? Izzat it?”

“Yeah. I’d say so.”

“Oh.” He finally retreats. Nick can feel his cheek fetch up against his spine again, warm little spot slumped on his back. “‘S’too bad. It’s fun.”

“I know it is,” Nick says with a frustrated smile.

And that just brings back more wavering, misshapen thoughts of those other two; most of the bitterness lost with bewilderment and curiosity trickling in to take its place. A long minute passes and he finds he can’t shut himself up on this one.

“Honestly, John,” Nick whispers into the dark. “A foursome with a brother and sister?”

It takes the kid a second to formulate an answer, Nick feels the slow shift of facial expressions against his back and hears the impending sleep in his voice. “You coulda just watched if you didn’t wanna get any. Just tryna be nice. Didn’t saaay you had to _do_ anything, did I? Nooo.”

“What.” Nick chokes out something between a laugh and a grunt. For one, that’s not really what he’d meant. And for two, would being a passive voyeur be worse or better than active participant? He closes his eyes and turns his face into his pillow. Not something he can figure out right now. “I’m sticking by what I said earlier: you’re insane.”

“You love it.” John grins and gives Nick’s shirt-clad shoulder blade a sloppy, smacking kiss. “You love meee.”

And the sad thing is, he’s kinda right. Trying as it is sometimes, there’s something almost satisfying in the way John’s chaos seeps in and fills all the myriad chinks and cracks in Nick’s order. Complements it.

“But, okay… maybe,” John says. “Maybe it was a little out of line for your del- delicate sens.. sensb..”

“Yeah, a _little?”_ He’s not as offended as he sounds, and John seems to catch it, laughing to himself.

“Myuh huh. They were pretty hot though, weren’t they. And fuuuck, the lips on that girl. Shoulda seen the stuff she did to him.”

“Mm. Real sorry I missed it,” Nick says.

John burps quietly and blows a long breath out as he drapes his arm over Nick’s waist. Nick haltingly shifts his arm back to cover John’s hand with his own, brushing his thumb over scabbed-up knuckles and trying to force out the murky, sordid images John just conjured up.

“‘M just gonna lay here for a sec,” John murmurs after a few silent minutes. He twists his fingers and curls them over the edge of Nick’s hand. “Don’t leave, okay.”

Nick says it one more time. Quietly.

“Sure, honey. Not goin’ anywhere. Get some sleep.”

John sighs in relief or exhaustion; might be both. And almost immediately his breathing slows and evens out, arm dragging heavier over Nick’s side. He’s out, and it doesn’t take too awful long for Nick’s back to reluctantly un-tense, for his heartbeat to slow, and then for him to drop in after him. No more thinking.


	16. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha! Thought that was the end of big party night in Goodneighbor? Think again, suckas! (or, the one where John’s got his speech skill maxed out even when he’s fuckin blitzed)
> 
> As much as Nick carefully keeps his filter up when he’s drunk, seems like John’s just gets stepped on and kicked into a dark corner somewhere, huh.
> 
> That said, this chapter has sexual activities between two fairly drunk/otherwise impaired people, so consent both ways is a bit iffy. It’s nothing unwanted in the end, but it _is_ drunkenness plus some Nick terror re: stuff he’s never done before. So, fair warning right here.

_December 28, 2280 5:45 AM_

 

Nick awakens some undetermined time later to sharp little teeth biting into his goddamn _side,_ right on the sensitive, fat part—

“What the, st— Ow! Stop it!” Nick yelps under his breath and holds himself still, having just enough consciousness to try to keep from both jerking away and from throwing an elbow into John’s face. The teeth relax and are replaced by a slow, wet lick over the pain. John’s slid down the bed in his sleep, now loosely wrapped around Nick’s hips and thighs like some weird, bunched up spider. Dragged the covers down with him too it feels like. Nick’s back is freezing.

“You awake?”

“No,” Nick grates, his mouth thick with sleep and the taste of old whiskey remnants. Blinking mostly blind into the dark, he wonders if it’d be worth the effort to liberate his pillow and smack John with it. “I yell all the time when I’m asleep.”

John giggles at him and crushes his face against Nick’s back. Plucks at the cloth of his shirt and draws the corner of it up further over his hip so he can push his lips against bare, chilly skin and kiss the low dip of his spine. And _oh._ That’s new. Tingles radiate outward from each drag of lips and Nick’s body freezes still, completely independent of the temperature. It’d be nice to turn around and see what the hell John thinks he’s up to halfway down the bed, but he’s still latched onto him and not letting go.

“Sorry,” John says, muffled, drowsy, and not sounding very sorry at all. He also sounds like he’s still ridiculously drunk; sleep only bringing him a few steps back from his erstwhile rating of ‘insanely drunk’.

It’s still night as far as Nick can tell and any ambient noise is completely gone. No more shouts or singing or slamming doors. The city sleeps. He shuffles around on the bed and clears his throat, tries to at least settle back into the shallow indent he just got bitten out of, unsuccessfully tug the sheets back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that if you get up here and go back to sleep,” Nick says, angling his face back. “Or what’dja want, kid? If it’s not an emergency, ‘m not getting up. Not ‘til the sun does.”

John doesn’t answer right away. Instead he pulls his hand up the outside of Nick’s thigh and lays it against his hip, fingering his waistband as he continues kissing his back and side. Tongue flicks out and the feel of it makes Nick want to squirm again, but he waits. Tense. Scalp prickling. Blood undecided on where it wants to go.

Though it makes its choice a moment later when John reaches out to cup his hand over the unsure tent in the front of Nick’s pants and stroke him slowly. The soft glide of his fingertips and the heel of his palm feel far, far too nice. Nick could try to call a stop to this before it continues much more, but it’d be a pointless and insincere effort. He shudders and thrusts up into his hand.

“I have...” John starts, “...a really, _really_ important and good question for you right now.”

 _Ridiculously_ drunk.

“Yeah?”

“Y’ever been rimmed before?”

Nick’s mind is a complete and utter blank.

“Beg your pardon?” He’d heard and understood. Just can’t come up with a sensible way to react with John’s face resting where it is. It’s… he’s _offering,_ isn’t he. That’s what this is. _Jesus, help me._

John snorts and clarifies for him anyway, his hand switching position to draw lazy, drifting lines with his nails up and down Nick’s cock. “Have you ever had someone’s tongue in your asshole.”

“No,” Nick says, frowning and trying to latch his focus onto something other than the touch of John’s hand and the trail of lax kisses leading down his spine. It’s dark and silent and John is the only sensory input he’s getting. It’s a horrible failure. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Hmm, that’s... a real shame.”

John lowers his head and digs his teeth into the upper swell of Nick’s backside. Nick arches into it, a ghost of a whine caught in his clenched teeth. It lights up his dulled nerves with pain and there’s a thin sliver of intrigue there to go with all the uneasiness. More than ever, he wants to turn and look at John, as if seeing him will break this odd spell. He decides not to.

“Never been licked apart,” John continues, slowly easing Nick’s waistband further down with his chin and scraping him with his stubble, slurring and spilling his words over Nick’s skin, “getting you all loose and open and dripping. Never been fingered ‘til you can’t talk anymore, wishing you could beg to be fucked but you can’t get the words out.”

Nick’s skin is going all hot and red, he can feel it all over his face, spreading down his neck, and over his chest. “No! Holy hell, would you shut up?”

John just laughs and bites him again, runs the flat of his hand down Nick’s ass, palming over the lower curve of it and getting _almost_ too close for comfort. Pressing _just_ hard enough to shift him, to start to push him apart. Against his own extensive reservations, Nick’s body is very interested. Even as the embarrassed blush continues to heat him like a furnace, he can feel himself stiffening even more with every filthy, rolling word and each touch that drags almost too close.

Close enough to scare the hell out of him but also make him wonder what crossing that threshold would feel like.

And even as adrift out there as he is, John cuts right to his inner thoughts with his hand still trailing confident up the backs of Nick’s thighs.

 _“Never,_ huh. Not curious?”

Nick has no answer for that, he just groans out a long breath and feels John smile against his skin.

“Ahaaa,” he purrs. “Roll over.”

Such an easy, simple request. Nick balks at it; stares at the far wall as if it has an out or an answer for him and swallows around the dry lump forming in his throat. The soft, insistent way John keeps sliding his hand up his ass is making the muscles of his stomach jerk and the back of his neck prickle like mad.

“No no no, don’t _think_ about it, I c’n hear you thinking.” John plucks at his hip. “Just roll over here.”

Nick responds with a vague grunt.

“Nickyyy, have I ever led you astray?”

He unlocks and lets John cram his shoulder down flat against the bed and then he’s engulfed in a very fragrant kiss, jet and sour beer somehow still on his breath. It’s clumsy and rough, their noses bumping together and lips off the mark until Nick coils his hands into John’s matted hair and pulls him into a better position. This is dancing right on the edge of what seems okay in regards to sobriety and having the capacity to make informed decisions, but Nick does _not_ have the willpower to say no in the face of this kind of eagerness. He’s already been teased and tempted once and he’s got no chance at all against a second strike.

And Nick’s not really sure how he does it, but John manages to both pull Nick’s shirt up to his underarms and his pants down to his knees without breaking stride. Bare skin meets as John collapses onto him and Nick’s cock is dragged slowly and with slick, wonderful pressure between their stomachs. Nick grabs a handful of John’s ass and squeezes, hauling him in closer and crushing their lips together even harder while being distantly disappointed that the kid’s still got his underwear on.

“I think you leading me astray is exactly why I'm in bed with you right now,” he says when John pulls back to breathe.

The shine of John’s teeth are just visible where he’s hanging over Nick; he makes a short growling sound and pushes some of his hair out of his eyes. “And _I_ think this kinda thing takes two. Don’t it?” he says. “You've sure been so vocal about telling me to blow it out my ass and get out of your life, haven't ya?”

“I tried. Once. Not very hard, I guess.”

A hand on the back of his neck pulls John back down and Nick kisses him again, hoping he’s not really angry; he can’t tell John’s mood from his raspy whisper, can’t tell if his teeth were bared in a smile or a snarl. But John usually has a good sense for his jokes and sarcasm. And he doesn’t seem upset, enthusiastically accepting the kiss (maybe too enthusiastically; the arm that’s holding him up almost gives out) and then shifting down and over to suck the skin of Nick’s throat and to get his hand back on him.

“Mmhm. F for effort.”

John drags his fingers lightly up Nick’s cock and makes a soft noise of surprise when he reaches the top. He splays them out and smears the precome beading there; encircles him in a tight fist and strokes down and back up with no friction at all. The effortless glide is unexpected and Nick hums in protest when he only does it the one time.

“Fuck _me,_ look at this,” John breathes. He brings his messy hand up to his mouth and Nick can hear and barely see him suck one of the digits. “Look how fucking wet you are.”

Maybe someday he’ll get used to it, the way John talks about these things, but this is not then. A jolt of embarrassment shoots down his back and Nick squints his eyes closed again. Embarrassed and flustered but, well. He’s not wrong.

“Do you have to be so crass all the time?”

“Only… heh. _Mostly_ cuz it makes you blush like you’re probably doin’ right now.” John leans in and drags their lips together and Nick can feel the too-slick texture of what he just had in his mouth. “C’mon, Valentine. Tell me you want it,” he says, breath hot and tongue flicking up over Nick’s top lip.

Nick just sighs and John laughs at him. Tugs Nick’s pants and underwear the rest of the way down, muttering ‘Get this the fuck off,’ as he does it and Nick bending his knees and raising his feet to help slip them down. John crawls over Nick’s leg to settle himself in between, knelt back on his haunches and hands petting up over the upper insides of Nick’s thighs. Thumbs dig briefly into the long muscles and then continue up in soft, repeated brushes under and then over his balls. Nick gasps at how close it is.

 _“Tell me_ you want it,” John says again. He’s using that voice again. And it’s working. There’s only so much of this he can take. “I know I’m still drunk as fuck but I will blow your fucking mind, man. Could eat ass in my sleep.” He bends down and presses a wet, tongue-filled kiss to the head of Nick’s cock, his forehead briefly digging into Nick’s stomach as he overguesses and tips too far forward. He’s laughing as he does it, sounding like he’s having the time of his life. If this all didn’t feel so incredibly good, Nick would probably be rolling his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You know that, right.”

 _Not on purpose, anyway._ “Yeah,” Nick breathes out. He’s so goddamn hard. “I know.”

“You gonna relax then?”

“No.”

John snorts and strokes him a few more times, cheek on Nick’s hip and bony knees digging into the undersides of his legs. He’s waiting. His hand tightens and loosens, tongue slides up, lips gently kiss and fall away. He makes a questioning noise.

 _It’s because you’re not the one in control,_ a voice from nowhere whispers. _That’s why you’re so scared of him. You’re used to being the one running the show and he doesn’t let you._

“I…” Heat throbs through Nick as he reaches down to pull a strand of wavy hair through his sweaty fingers; the shake in his voice is uncontrollable, not masked at all by how quiet he speaks. He knows it doesn’t sound particularly gracious, but he’s too jittery to get a handle on it. _It’s not so bad though, is it? You can give it up. For him._

“I want it,” he whispers. “Go on and do it.”

“Y’make it sound like a death sentence kinda, sayin’ it like that.” John giggles, blowing cool air over Nick’s legs and making him twitch some more. “If you can relax and not worry about how _gay_ it is... I think ya might like it.” He holds Nick’s cock in the palm of his hand, a backboard so he can flatten his tongue and run it all the way from base to tip, warm and forceful and wet. Nick is very well aware of the irony therein and holds back the burst of nervous laughter that wants to erupt. “Don’t? Just tell me to fuckin’ quit it. Pretty sure I can figure something else out.”

John kisses his thigh and then pushes it back so his leg is bent, knee pointing roughly at the ceiling. As John’s thumb slides up his skin, he somehow finds the little gnarl of scar tissue on the back of his thigh from a very old gunshot. One that had come within about a quarter inch of killing him, a fact he’d discovered stretched out in an empty CA&E boxcar somewhere outside Elgin with Dawes sweating and cursing under his breath for scaring him so bad. John kisses it as well and continues on.

“Arright, spread your legs for me, baby.”

It’s only a small comfort that John’s starting to sound a little breathless as well.

And it’s a good thing it’s so dark in here; Nick doesn’t want John to see any part of this. The (predicted) wildfire of a blush on his cheeks and neck, the way he can’t stop licking his lips, his one hand curled over his chest and the other holding desperately onto the sheets searching for some kind of support there, his awkwardly angled legs or anything between them. This is more exposed than he’s felt in a very, very long time. He closes his eyes and tries not to jerk when John wriggles down onto his front and eases Nick’s hips back even more, pushing him further apart and running his palms down to squeeze the flesh he can get his hands around.

“I feel ridiculous,” Nick mutters.

John chuckles and rolls his cheek on Nick’s thigh, turning in to kiss it again. “Yeah, can’t really do this dignified. It’s pretty much this or on your front or knees with your ass up in the air. You’re fine. You’re… really good.”

It doesn’t matter how slowly John moves, (giving him a really very polite amount of warning by carefully working his way inwards with little kisses and nips and drags of his fingertips) the first actual touch tightens every muscle in Nick’s body and he goes absolutely dead silent. Can’t talk, can’t breathe, can’t move.

John’s tongue is a hot, slick mass of pressure sliding over his hole, a part of his body he’s never thought of in a sexual light before. John brackets him on either side with his thumbs, gently pulling him apart and pressing into the muscles there. Kneading his skin as he pushes his face in deeper, licking a longer stripe up and then bringing his lips in to kiss and suck.

Nick lets a long, moaning breath out.

As the initial shock subsides, he’s sort of pleasantly horrified to realize that it feels _really_ damn good. His cock jerks and he knows he’s leaking even more than he was, making a sticky mess of his stomach. Unsure, he brings the hand that’s not covering his mouth down to stroke over the wetness, grip his cock, push it down and slide it back up the shaft in time with the long, slow licks John’s making below him. This isn’t exactly how he’d planned to spend his time tonight. Expected a bit more being nice and unconscious, but here they are and for god’s _sake—_

John pulls away for a moment, fingers continuing to rub circles into the soft skin where the scruff of his jaw was just scraping. He licks a long line up the tendon behind Nick’s knee and sucks a wet kiss into the hollow there at the top.

“Feels good, huh?”

Nick guiltily drops his hand back to his stomach. The muscles there and in his back are still tensed up hard. He can barely see the shine of John’s eyes, the paler halo of his hair in the dark, but he looks away anyway. “Yeah,” he says, all choked up.

“Yeah,” John echoes. “Fuck yeah, it feels good.” He drops down and licks him again, shoving his tongue in deep and humming as he does it. Pats an exposed curve of asscheek and then bites it, though not as hard as when he’d done it as a wake up. Nick still sucks a breath in. “Keep on goin’,” John says, nodding up at his hand. “You’re s’posed to like it.”

He does, letting himself relax into it by a few degrees. Spreads his legs a little more, rolls and flexes his hips into a rhythm with his hand and John’s busy mouth, allows a few quiet groans and curses to slip out as he goes. He can feel his body surrendering to it all. Every lazy lick, every suck, every tight squeeze of fingers on his legs, every ticklish flicker of tongue, it all shoots right through him like a slow arcing plasma bolt.

He’s trembling and sweating and his free hand’s probably going to cramp up soon with how hard it’s fisted into the sheets, but it’s… yeah, John was right. Sort of mind-blowing. The things he’s doing with his tongue and his lips are completely short-circuiting Nick's brain; it would be so easy to get off like this, especially with those just-audible moans John keeps crooning into his skin. With the way his shoulders surge forward against Nick’s legs, rubbing himself against the bed as he goes. Then Nick almost chokes when John draws away again and comes back with something a lot firmer than a tongue.

“John,” he warns.

John doesn’t pull back, but he doesn’t press any harder either. Just rubs slowly over spit-soaked flesh with the flat pad of his finger. Tongues around next to it in a gentle tease. Nick grits his teeth against the warbly moan that’s trying to break loose. It feels like each individual hair on his body has been electrified. His legs fall even wider apart. Traitors.

“No..?” John licks upward, carefully sucks one of Nick’s balls into his mouth as he continues to softly touch his ass. Moves back and drools a string of saliva onto his fingers to slick them up some more. “Say it; I’ll stop right here and we can go back.”

He remembers what this did to John; how much he’d loved it when Nick had done it to him. The way he looked with his back arched out and his head tossed back and his mouth open and gasping. Then pushing down against Nick’s hand to get him right where he wanted. And _shit,_ it feels good, just being touched there. Count this among the growing list of things he never thought he’d like.

“Or do you want more?” John tips his finger perpendicular for a brief, terrifying second. “Huh?”

In that, Nick hears an echo of his question from earlier: _‘Not curious?’_

He could try and blame this on the swimmy leftovers of the night’s many many drinks, but that’s not entirely it. His heart’s in his throat, but yeah, he is curious. Frantically so. And if not now, then when?

“Just… hell.” Nick swallows and opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go, blinking and staring upwards. He knows he doesn’t really have to elaborate here, doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking (‘I’m trusting you’). “Just be nice.”

“‘Course I will. I got you,” he says, his voice husky and sweetly earnest. Nick believes him.

But John doesn’t go any further for a minute or so, just rubs over him, switching out one finger for two or his thumb. Pushing his face in to lap at him again and ply him with more spit. Nick feels it dripping down his legs and ass and winces at how wet the bed is underneath him; that’s going to be unpleasant later when this haze wears off. He almost thinks more isn’t going to come before he feels John shift back into a sitting position and hears him suck on his finger and he thinks _Oh god, this is it._

It’s the same touch for a moment, and then they both breathe together when John changes the angle and slides into him; Nick gasping in deep and John blowing a slow, fascinated breath out. Nick clenches up hard around the odd intrusion and John rests his forehead on Nick’s leg and whispers a low, _“Fuuuck.”_

Nick takes a split second to wonder how this would feel un-numbed by sleep and alcohol. As it is, it’s right on the edge of uncomfortable; pressure and tightness he’s not used to, but it doesn’t hurt. He’s thankful, he thinks as he bites the inside of his cheek and tries to will himself to relax, that John has slim fingers and is capable of such a delicate touch. And then John’s drawing out, slowly slowly, coasting over saliva and smearing his fingertips over Nick’s sensitive, twitching hole. John’s breathing about as hard as Nick is, and he practically moans his words out when he touches… touches and pushes back in again.

“Jesus Christ, you feel so fffucking good.”

Nick doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but it starts to feel ...like something. Something a little nicer than just that weird sense of pressure and stretching. And the way John is so into it, staring down at him with his hair in his face and gripping Nick’s leg like a lifeline, is a pretty convincing argument on its own. John slips in deeper and Nick’s breath hitches, hips rolling with the motion and cock bobbing forgotten against his stomach.

“Alright, hang on, let’s see if… right—”

Nick jumps and his hands scrabble around uselessly on the bed as John touches against something that sends a jolt of mind-numbing pleasure shooting through him.

“—yeah, right there.” John laughs at him and drags over it again as Nick gasps and howls as quietly as he can into the heavy, sweat-coated crook of his elbow. “Fuck, dude, the fucking sounds you make. Wanna keep going I guess?”

John shifts inside him, feels like he’s making the slowest, most seductive ‘come here’ gesture, and Nick’s lost, adrift in a warm, tingling pulse of sensation and _want._ His voice is thready and he can barely even force the simplest affirmation out around the desperate pull of his breaths. “Yes.”

It only takes about a minute (maybe a minute, it feels like it might be hours) of those long, gentle, _agonizing_ strokes to break him down and make him plead for relief. Hollow, gasping words, he’s not even sure they actually mean anything until John answers back.

“Mm, you sure? Don’t wanna try and come just like this? Bet you could.” John brings his other hand down Nick’s burning chest, all the way down his stomach and braces there right next to what Nick needs as he rocks into him slow and steady.

Nick shakes his head. “Nnn…”

“Then say it again.” He drops closer, twists his finger slightly. “I wanna hear you beg me for it.”

Even now, at this point, Nick can’t really bring himself to be annoyed by the teasing and the grin he knows John’s got plastered all over his face. This is not something he does (though neither is most of what’s just occured, go figure) and he has no idea what the kid actually wants to hear from him but Nick’s so far gone and it’s real damn plain just how in it John is as well. Which is just piling back onto his own lust and causing this massive cascade—

“John, please, I can’t take this,” Nick whispers, groaning in the back of his throat, shifting his hips up. “I need you to—”

John quiets and the smooth glide of his hand stutters.

 _Whatever,_ Nick thinks faintly, still throbbing and shaking and barely holding it together under John’s hand, _just go for broke._

 _“Please,_ just suck my cock.”

It’s still too dark to really see much in the room, though surely it’s about time for the sun to start rearing its head again, so the only preface he gets for the fingers and lips almost immediately encircling him is John’s pained moan of, “God, _fuck.”_

He’s been on edge since he was woken up however long ago; a long, hard lick up his shaft and then the tight, wet heat of John sucking him down as he curls his finger up _right there_ is the end of it all. Nick arcs back, digging his head into his pillow as his hips lift with the force of his orgasm, almost wanting to cry at how good it feels. He feels like a cloth being wrung out to the point of ripping and he bites his lip, claws his hand into John’s shoulder where he’s knelt over him, mouth and hands still working him through the last of it. Trying and failing to be gentle as it comes to an end. As he convulses one last time, John also slowly draws his finger out of Nick and tha-at’s an awkward feeling now the thing’s fading away.

John lets Nick’s cock slip out of his mouth to lay against his stomach again. He stays hunched there, breathing over him and then licking it again, a too-firm drag that makes Nick jerk and touch his head to stop him before he gets carried away and keeps going.

“You are amazing… _amazing,”_ John says, trying to laugh but all he can manage is a weird chuffing sound with a voice gone all throaty and worn. He tips forward again, shoulder and side of his face crushing against Nick and then tries to shimmy his way up his body; Nick helps pull once he figures out why he’s wiggling around like that. And now John reaches down and shoves at the band of his underwear, kicking them weakly down his legs. “The hell ‘m I still in these?”

Nick blows a slow breath out and loops an arm under John’s shoulders, drawing him up and into a damp-skinned embrace. The slight, languid weight of him feels so good there and Nick squeezes him tighter, feels the edges of his ribs and the press of his long thighs. He realizes he still has his own shirt on, accordioned up over the very top of his chest. Oops. “I have no idea.”

“Yeah, solve _that_ fuckin’ mystery,” John says. He skids his hand down Nick’s torso and rests it on his own dick where it’s pressed into Nick’s side. Rolls his hips and Nick can feel the hidden tension in him when he moves, the shaky stutter of muscles. “Kiss me, wouldja? I’m gonna cut this loose and then pass the fuck out, if that’s okay.”

The real, _actual_ mystery here is how many places John’s mouth has been tonight, but really, right now, Nick just does not care. He tips the kid’s chin up with his hand, dwarfing his smaller face with it as always, the other arm kind of surrounding his head like a shield and kisses him as nicely as he can while John uncoils against him. His mouth is soft and yielding now, the way it is every once in a while. Like he’s trying to prove that he can be tame, sometimes; that no, look, he’s not always a hellion.

John's lips are tacky with spit and come as he strokes himself and shivers and chases Nick deeper into this tangle of need and straining limbs and smeared fluids. He feels it when John’s almost there, the shivers turn into shakes then tremors and he grunts into Nick’s mouth, retreating so he can breathe instead. Tucks his face against Nick’s neck.

Nick snakes his hand around John’s side to press it to the small of his back, fingertips coaxing over soft skin. “C’mon, kid. I got you,” he whispers against his temple.

John sobs against his jaw, nose on his cheek and breath washing hot and fast down the skin of Nick’s throat. His hand falls away, and he rides out the last of it just thrusting against Nick’s hip and the slight curve of his belly. He clenches hard onto Nick’s forearm, blindingly tight for a second or two… then shudders. Relaxes. Every part of him goes limp. He breathes. Breathes out. Back in.

After a few beats of total silence, Nick raises an eyebrow and looks down.

Oh.

Well.

He hadn’t been kidding. Nick raises his arm and John’s hand slides right off with no resistance, flopping down around his waist instead. Kid’s asleep.

“No, no, come on,” Nick mutters. “At least let me—” he wedges his hand under John’s neck and levers him up, pushing him to roll bonelessly onto the other pillow, “—pull the damn covers back up first. Jeez.”

Nick uses his newfound freedom to go ahead and dig his sweats and shorts out of the depths of the bed where they’d been kicked, stand up (grimacing at the cold floor and the wetness covering the backs of his legs) and pull them back on, too mentally done with everything to do much more than wipe a hand over his slimy stomach and grind it into the cloth now covering the side of his thigh. And the way he’s a little more _...aware_ of his ass than usual, that’s more information than he wants or knows what to do with right now. He considers the bed for a second (realizing the room is a few shades greyer than it had been, some tiny bit of pre-dawn light coming in from the window) before hustling over to his coat to grab his cigarettes and matches from a pocket. He’s back to the shelter of the blankets and folding them both under before the heat from their overworked bodies fully fades away.

Smoking in bed is usually something he despises, but screw it. The calm and the warmth are more of a priority than worrying about ashy bedding and he’s too alert still to fear burning the place down.

Nick watches John sleep as he does, the side of the kid’s face and sliver of pale neck lit by the faint light of the window and the periodic orange of his cigarette cherry. He stays there, head and shoulders tipped against the headboard and stiff legs stretched out, hip bumped up against John’s side and thoughts dazedly vacillating between blessed nothing and _did all that really just happen?_ When his smoke burns down to the filter Nick slides back down the bed and drapes his arm over his forehead, the other hand seeking out John’s hip. Debates with himself on risking waking John up to kiss his cheek where it still shows above the sheet.

Kid’s dead to the world anyway. So he does, leaning over and pulling John’s hair back to brush his lips over the soft ridge of cheekbone. John doesn’t wake, but his mouth pooches out with a long breath and he makes a quiet ‘puh’ sound. It’s almost offensive how he can be unconscious and still so charming.

 

_December 28, 2280 1:15 PM_

 

As far as he’s aware, there's no rush to get back to Diamond City so Nick goes ahead and lets John sleep in as long as he wants. And John sleeps like a damn rock, so when he finally does come back to the land of the living it’s easy to notice.

Nevermind his loud groan of “Oh, you fucking _cock_ sucker,” and variants thereof when his eyes creak open and take in the sunlight in the room.

“How ya doin’, kid,” Nick asks from the chair across the room.

John shifts around to locate him, face all squinched up like he just bit into a raw tarberry, before collapsing again and burying his face right back into his pillow.

“Great!” comes the muffled answer, jam-packed with false heartiness. “No regrets.”

Nick has a cup of tea he’d picked up from downstairs, worth the treacherous journey past piles of bottles in the halls (most empty, some not; some intact, most not), a burnt couch crammed into the stairwell at an improbable angle and two heavy chairs balanced on top, and the pièce de résistance: a passed-out woman sprawled in a doorway wearing a really very lovely pair of cowboy boots and not much else. He takes another long sip and wonders what would have had to happen… what kinds of things would John have to get into to regret it. He’d only seen him remorseful in that way the one time, and not for killing someone. No, for killing someone under circumstances that had _inconvenienced_ Nick. He’s thought it before and he thinks it again now: odd kid.

John rolls over onto his side, yanks the sheets up around his ears and squints over at Nick for a few minutes, wincing, blinking, and stretching his jaw.

“What about you?” he eventually asks. And now, even with the sleepiness, he’s got about the cheekiest look on his face Nick’s ever seen on anyone, eyes trailing all the way down Nick’s sitting form and lingering on his hips. “Got anything you wish you could rewind?”

Nick surveys him impassively over the rim of his cup, determined not to cross his legs or let the kid see him crack at all. “I dunno, think I’ve made my peace with it all.”

John gives him an approving wink from the Cave of Blankets. “Yeah, that’s how y’do it.

“You’ve got it all though, right? A lot of the time you wake up the next day and can barely remember a damn thing. Just like ‘Oh, I think I had a good time? Can’t wait for the next one’, and that’s about it." He coughs and closes his eyes. “Think I’m about in the middle there. Teleporters exist, right? ‘S how I got back here.”

No, no, Nick remembers it all. Getting dressed, getting dressed _again,_ taking the walk down to the Rexford with John on his arm and no one sparing them a second look, observing the attendees, impressing John when he snatched his drink from a shattery death when someone got knocked into their table, the music, the talking, the dance with Daisy, the awkward offer, the cold walk back to the room, putting John to bed, putting him to bed _again_ and all that that entailed.

“Mmhm, I got it,” Nick says. “I haven’t drank to amnesiac levels in a hot minute. ...And yeah, I know, ‘Look at you, Mr. Boring’.” John makes a deflated _nyehh_ sound and lets his teeth click shut on whatever he’d actually been about to say. “I for one still need to use my head every so often.”

“Ouch, the snark is out in full force today, rawr.”

Nick snorts and John rolls around in the bed, sighing dramatically and pulling his pillow over the top half of his face to shield his eyes.

“So, you wanna grab some breakf... or. Mm.” John pauses. “Time is it anyway?”

“Little past one.”

“Rrrrmmmm…” His mouth draws down in a grimace. “...Some lunch in like half an hour? Got some business I gotta take care of before we get on back.”

“‘Business’,” Nick repeats. “Would that be to do with that hangover you’re sitting on?”

“No.” An arm pokes out and points at Nick from the depths. “But that’s a swell idea. Glad I thought of it.”

It takes him a while, but he gets up and gets dressed and gets a move on. There’s a lot of Nick pretending not to watch him stagger naked all over the room and a lot of John pretending to drop his things all over the floor. It’s all very serious and subtle from both sides.

 

_December 28, 2280 2:00 PM_

 

Lunch turns out more enlightening than meals usually do.

They’re both saddled up to go home afterwards and it only takes until Nick needs to scoot his chair in out of the way of someone passing by for him to accidentally kick John’s backpack. The kid always ventures out light but the bag is now quite full of something and makes a noticeable rattle when Nick’s foot connects with it. He nudges it again and raises an eyebrow at John who is currently stuffing himself with some kind of questionable omelet and diced tatoes. His own food sits forgotten in front of him for the moment.

Shifting his mouthful to one side of his face, John leans his chin on his hand and says, “Yes, that is the business to which I previously alluded.”

Nick’s pretty sure he knows what makes that rattly plastic click, a brief stint running with the vice squad made him quite well-acquainted with that specific kind of percussion, so he just raises his eyebrow as far up as it goes.

John swallows and cocks his head to the side, a funny smile on his face. He gestures with his fork as he speaks, runs his tongue over his teeth. “This is what I get, isn’t it. This is what I get for hanging out with nosy-ass detectives. Well, go on, open it. Take a look.

“Discreetly, maybe,” he adds quietly, but with an edge in his voice as Nick leans under the table to grab the drawstring closure at the top. “Don’t need any tagalongs on our way out, huh.”

So he pulls the thing loose and peers down the neck of it and yep. Mentat tins, jet canisters, buffout bottles, med-x syringes. Lots and lots of them nestled in among John’s suit jacket and the wine-stained remains of his shirt. A few mystery items are tied up individually inside scraps of thick cloth.

“This isn’t all for you, is it?”

“Well, not _all_ of it, no,” John says. "I sell it."

A few things click neatly together. The way he seems to be on at least first name basis with everyone in Diamond City, the visits to Fred, his personal habit.

John nods his chin up so Nick closes the bag up again, reties the nylon cords and slides it further away from foot traffic. “That’d be a spicy couple weeks though, wouldn’t it?” John adds.

“‘A couple’? It looks like there’s enough in there to knock out everyone in the stands twice over.”

John laughs and goes back to his food though his smile isn’t quite touching his eyes anymore. “There is. So, what. You gonna take me in then?” He’s joking overtop his even gaze but it looks like he took Nick’s incredulous tone a bit the wrong way.

Nick thinks back to that very first evening when John had vaulted over his bench to sit and talk with him. At the time he’d briefly considered that the kid was going to try to sell him something and had accordingly started planning out an escape route. It’d never come to anything, but it’s making him smile, thinking about it now. Maybe John'd been about to and just got distracted.

“No one’s paying me to care about this, so no. I think you’re safe.”

John doesn’t look very appeased by that; still got an uneasy, half-wary look to him. He can’t honestly think Nick would ...what? March him over to Roberts’ office? Cast him to the floor and declare to all present his misdeeds? What’s he acting like this for? Nick shifts his foot over under the table and playfully taps it against his ankle.

“C’mon, really. The hell do I care? Get that look off your face, would ya.”

John kicks back at him half-heartedly.

“Why don’t you make me?” he says.

Nick reaches over and snags a forkful of his eggs, smiling obnoxiously at the offended scoff from John. “Maybe I will, kid.” He brushes John’s ankle again, this time running the toe of his shoe up the side of his leg.

That finally gets a real smile out of him. He snorts and calls Nick a fucking idiot and they finish their lunch and they go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)
> 
> Okay, John had one regret: not getting to see the face Nick made when u know what.


	17. Chi-Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory chapter, wassup. I know it’s all exposition and we all know what happens here, but I hope I did enough to flesh it out and make it alright. Making some more use of those Graphic Depictions of Violence and Minor Character Death tags in this chapter. 
> 
> Still not really graphic though. 
> 
> Vaguely Described Depictions of Violence.

_December 31, 2280 11:10 PM_

 

“So, why’d you leave Chicago?”

A chill walks through Nick, and it ain’t from the gust of near-arctic wind that just blew by.

They’re sitting out on the corrugated metal platforms that connect some of the Diamond City housing around the agency. John had popped the lock to his front door before Nick could even set foot on the ground floor, nevermind reach for the door handle, then stuck his grinning head around the corner and asked Nick what the hell that other door was upstairs. Nick allowed as how he wasn’t really sure and they’d gone up and shifted the bookshelf in front of it together; Nick hissing when his hands nearly slipped off and John kicking a foot out to deflect the fall of one of the few books that they hadn’t bothered to remove.

Maybe worth all the sweaty effort in the end, though. The city sets off fireworks in a small end-of-year celebration; early enough not to disturb the citizens trying to sleep on time but late enough for it to feel like some secret, exclusive event to the rest of them. And the little section of roof they’re on was a perfect place to view the glittery bursts of red and gold and silver.

It’s cold as hell out here, real god damn frigid, but John is warm beside him, the both of them bundled together in the quilt lifted from Nick’s bed and sitting on a folded piece of carpet as they look out across the stretch of city in front of the Wall. Kids run to and fro across the brick paths and scrub grass, some playing tag and some throwing snap ‘n pops at each others’ feet and some just racing around from one pool of streetlamp light to the other. Parents and other adults hover around in groups, chatting and laughing and waiting a little more sedately for the runners to tire themselves out after the evening’s pyrotechnics.

“Was it one big thing?” John asks. They’ve each got a hand on the quilt, holding it closed around their bodies and John’s other one is on the neck of a beer bottle. Nick has deemed it terrible beer drinking weather and his spare is wrapped around John’s waist instead, touching the rivets and seams of his jeans and hooking his fingers through his belt loops. “Or was it one of those death from a thousand cuts kinda deals?”

“Didn’t I already tell you why? Coulda sworn we’ve talked about it.” _Just passing curiosity or are you gonna push for this?_ Nick thinks. _Ask again and I’ll tell, if you really wanna know. Think I can._

“Mm, no, you gave me one of those polite, I-don’t-know-you lines. What’d you say… ‘It was just time to leave’? Ahh, did you just get bored of it?”

Nick watches a kid smack face first into another one running at top speed and he and John both _ooh_ at the hollow bonk it must’ve made. Yeah, he had said that. And yeah, it had been a canned non-answer built for a stranger. Blamed the departure on the two power armor brigades too which certainly hadn’t improved anyone’s situation but wasn’t at all why he’d actually up and left.

“No, wasn’t boredom,” Nick says slowly. Jeez, how to start this. “Gotta warn you, it’s a long story and not very nice. You really wanna get into this now?”

“Never said I wanted somethin’ nice. Hit me with your worst.”

John tips his bottle back and Nick watches him out of the corner of his eye. His wet lips and the roll of his throat inches away. He glances over and smiles now, tongue catching a runaway drop and voice hitting something lighter. _“If_ you feel like it. Plenty of other stuff to talk about. Or we don’t have to talk about a thing; I can just sit right here ‘n drink my drink.” The smile goes wide. “I’m easy to please.”

Nick has only spoken about this once. Angrily. To his brother before leaving him, possibly forever. There was no one else he could’ve told at that point. And Dima… he’d seen and understood right away. Knew as soon as Nick walked into his little kitchen late at night and looked out the window, stony-eyed and stony-hearted and furious. Knew before he opened his mouth what Nick had gone and done and that it was either going to put him in the ground or require him to flee the city. Or nevermind that, the entire area surrounding the Lake.

It was painful and it was ugly, but it’s been… hell. Nearly six years. Time enough to dig it out and give it a go over. And while things like that never truly go away, always skulking around waiting for some weak light to pick them out of the darkness, their teeth eventually start to dull and their jaws get weaker. Venom dilutes, loses its causticity.

“...Of my brother and me,” Nick starts, “I was always the disobedient one, if you can believe that.”

John snorts and Nick smiles at the dark sky, leaning lightly against the powdery wall of cinder blocks at their backs and watching the smoky tendrils of the fireworks drift slowly off to the west.

“It’s true. I was the older one, supposed to be responsible and keep the both of us out of trouble, right, but it took a long time to get my head wrapped around that. Never meant anything bad by it, I was just too curious for my own good. Dima was always the peacekeeper. Always watched my back when I went exploring somewhere I wasn’t supposed to, always talked me down from doing something a little too stupid, stuck up for me when I was getting chewed out by my mom for coming in late or talking to the wrong people. Never wanted to fight, never wanted to hurt anyone. Big sweetheart, always has been.

“So that’s how he was, I was. We were. I got older and bigger but didn’t really change much. Hunted and scavved and scrapped and drank and dragged my brother along with me when I could pull him away from his own life. For years. Up until I fell into a job at the police department at… must’ve been twenty-six, twenty-seven. I’m still not entirely sure how that went; usually you gotta be friends or family to get in so easy. Someone noticed I was a pretty decent shot and somehow wasn’t running with a gang yet or something worse. Too busy with taking care of my mom and tormenting my brother.”

Nick clears his throat and shifts around.

“Haven’t talked about this much. Not really sure what’s important or not.”

John pats his leg and gives it a faint squeeze. “Nah. You can tell me anything you like, any time. Bloodbug mating habits, caravan schedules, the virtues of weapon maintenance. I will be there to listen to your sexy voice.” He clears his throat. “Might not pay attention, but I’ll listen.”

Nick lets out a shuddery laugh and tilts his head against John’s. Sneaking up on it, coming at it from an oblique angle is making this go smoother, at any rate.

“But keep going, this is good,” John says.

“Mm. Well, here’s something that really has no bearing on this. I loved tinkering with stuff too. Fiddled around with electronics and tore computers apart before I joined up with the CPD. Wrecked two of Dima’s holotape readers before he finally got wise and started hiding them from me.

“After the fact, I’ve always thought it was a real good thing the brotherhood hadn’t been on one of their recruitment sprees at that time or yours truly might’ve ended up as one of the many technician scribes out there. Making bigger, scarier guns or propulsion systems so they can,” Nick makes a motion like he’s tossing a handful of seeds over a patch of earth, “spread out even faster than they already are.

“But that never happened, thank god. I got an interview with the captain of the local department. He liked me; I liked the idea of a steady paycheck. So I started as a trainee, became a patrolman, went with vice for a month or so and helped out with some of the drudge work when needed, went back to patrol for a really long time, and finally… years later landed what I really wanted to do after seeing them around so often. I threw everything I had into becoming a detective. I studied, I shadowed, I trained as hard as I could at anything I could think of that would make me better. It was, the whole thing I mean, pretty much like becoming a new person. They kept me in line, and jeez, was that a fight sometimes, especially in the beginning but I dove into it and learned a little self-restraint. Enough to stop getting my ass handed to me every other day anyway. Learned the valuable lesson that not everyone in life was gonna put up with my shit like my brother always had.”

John snorts again. “Still having a hard time imagining you…” He trails off and makes some kind of a gesture under the blanket.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been forty-five, going grey, and worried about job security all my life. Alright, gimme one of those, huh?”

John plucks a beer out of the case next to him, twists the cap off, and hands it over. It’s just as cold as he thought but it helps.

“So,” Nick starts again, wiping foam off his lip with the back of his hand. Then he pauses. Takes one more drink. “So right in the middle of learning the ins and outs of my new career, still trying to get my head on straight while uh, desperately clinging to the last fading vestiges of my delinquent side... I met a girl.”

John makes a quiet revelatory noise. Then a few moments later when Nick doesn’t continue, asks, “What was her name?”

Nick swallows and feels just a hint of a twinge at the back of his throat, creeping down his sinuses.

He can see her still. Faded around the edges a little, but he can still see her face. Hear the way she laughed when she really got goin’, remember how she’d jump into his arms again when work had kept them apart for too long. Can remember the exact way she had of asking if he was alright when he was lookin’ a little rough. Tone low and cajoling, ‘Hey, you.’ And he’d look at her and she’d wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. ‘Can’t be as bad as all that, can it?’

Nick smiles.

“Jennifer Lands. I met her at the little diner she worked at one day after my beat was over. I’d just got switched over to a new neighborhood; went in to get a sandwich, a coffee, and some news and ended up with said coffee all down my blues and helping the waitress throw a guy out the front door. Just some rowdy getting too worked up over nothing. Yelled and flailed around, knocked my drink over on me and it smashed all over the floor and before I could even stand up, this tiny little gal was around the counter and had the guy in a headlock and was tugging him across the room telling him that that was the last damn straw, Leo, and if he wanted to come back he could bring her an apology, a new cup, and a better attitude.”

John chokes on his last sip of beer when he goes to laugh; Nick thumps him on the back and giggles along with him as he continues. “I managed to swallow down my awe and get it together quickly enough to go and hold the door for her while she tossed the gentleman out on his ass. Then she looked at me and said you’re dripping all over my floor. I said look, I’m _sorry_ and the next time I come in I’ll bring a mop, and she laughed and pulled the door shut and bought me another coffee. That was Jenny.”

John grins, eyes watery. “I like her.”

“I like her too,” Nick agrees, heart warming at the admiration in John’s voice. “We were friends for a long time after that. A year, I think. Which wasn’t that unique; she was the kinda person it’s real easy to be friends with. But time went on and I guess I… well, I fell in love with her. I’m assuming she fell in love with me right back, cuz after about a month’s worth of apparently missing all her big, obvious hints, she went ahead and informed me that I was now her boyfriend and that it was a good thing I looked good in the uniform cuz I was about the most clueless detective she’d ever met.”

John bursts out laughing again, high and clear with his head thrown back and swaying into Nick’s shoulder. Nick smiles and remembers the way she’d rolled her eyes at him and told him to stop looking so gormless and kiss her already.

“Fuck, man,” John wheezes. “Ruthless. But I think she had a point, huh? You haven’t gotten much better at that.”

“Look, as long as it doesn’t have to do with someone flirting with me, I think I do alright.”

John _hmph’s_ in agreement or maybe in ‘yeah, whatever, you’re fulla shit’.

“So we dated, and we moved in together. Not gonna say it was perfect, it wasn’t, nothing is, but it was really, really good. She was mine and I was hers. And it was good enough that I… after probably way too long again… asked her if she’d marry me.

“Wow. She say yes?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. Right away, it had been; no hesitation at all. Just had that look she got every so often that went like _finally caught up with the rest of us, have you?_ but nice; it was never mean, that look. “She said yes. So we were engaged. My family, well, my brother thought she was great; our parents had passed a while before. Old age. Jenny didn’t really have any family left but her close friends thought I wasn’t too much of a screw-up and they could see we made each other happy. We talked about maybe having a couple of kids in a few years. It was a good… good time in my life.”

The best, maybe. Walking in the park with Jenny, taking her to the little makeshift gun range and letting her try out his service pistol while she laughed at the kick of it, reading in bed together connected by the touch of a foot because it was too hot for more, Nick forgetting to close the windows in the living room one day and them coming home to some kind of heron or other long-necked waterbird eyeballing them from the sill (the jokes about their almost-roommate went on for a long time), having lunch under the eaves of town hall and watching the dark, gritty rain pour down right next to them, just sitting next to her on their couch and saying nothing but not needing to. So many little flashes of things. Years worth.

“So what then? What happened?” John asks softly.

Here it is again. The chills come back and Nick drinks the last of his beer, grimacing at the taste of the end.

“A man named Eddie Winter is what happened,” Nick says. He rolls the empty bottle through his palms and looks at the distorted city through its sides. “He was filth, to put it nicely. Had his fingers in every piece of dirty business in Chicago for decades, the little stuff along with the big. He had all the power anyone could want and he was good at never leaving any proof. Nothing that could connect him to the thefts or the assassinations or the extortion or the kidnappings. So it was, I think, one of the longest ongoing cases the CPD had to deal with. It was so old it kinda got to be a joke among us. ‘Gonna crack that Winter case any time soon, Carver?’ ‘We’re close I can feel it; just need a quick nother two hundred years.’” Nick coughs. “How old it was was the only thing funny about it, the actual contents of it were not.

“But after so many years of getting his way and being untouchable, I guess his arrogance caught up to him. He started getting sloppy. Leaving around uncoded correspondence, jobs he arranged got a little messy and more visible, patterns started appearing.

“The case was ‘re-opened’ in a sense and I was put on the big new operation to take him down. Worked with my captain… Captain Widmark, a few other precinct detectives, and even one or two freelance muckrakers to get enough evidence together to put him away for good. We worked real damn hard. Long days, longer nights. The op was Widmark’s baby, and me, I think I felt like I still had to prove myself so I worked as hard as I could without just falling down in the traces. I’d go home each night, eat, tell Jenny my news and listen to hers, and just drop into bed sore and feeling like I’d never be fully energized again.

“And it felt like we were getting somewhere, bringing in some of his guys, getting _so close_ to nailing him with something finally. And I…” Nick’s voice wavers. He clears his throat and continues, “...I guess we were because one day out on patrol I get a hail on the radio, for me specifically, from an unknown frequency telling me to come over to Ninth and Lakeview because there was somethin’ I had to see. Wouldn’t give any more clarification than that. The person on the other end laughed and the transmission went dead. No response. I still don’t know who that was that called me over.

“So I went. Didn’t want to, knew it was a bad idea, but I needed to know what it was that this voice knew, why it had my radio frequency. Took my then-partner, Cho with me as backup. I had the worst feeling the whole time we were walking there. I felt like I was outside myself, floating behind the two of us and watching myself walk to this corner I’d been over hundreds of times. We were both pretty freaked out; enough that Cho practically walked backwards the whole way watching out for anyone coming up on us. It was that laugh at the end of the message that did it. He kept tripping over things and cursing at me to help him out, I remember that. But I was too busy just staring ahead, couldn’t blink much.

“It was a body, what I’d been called to see. That floating feeling got worse the closer I got. Because I recognized the dress it was wearing. I mean, I’d bought it for her, why wouldn’t I?”

John stiffens beside him and Nick hears him whisper, “Shit.”

And now it hurts to speak.

“Yeah. They’d shot her. Twice in the back and once in the head. Middle of the day where anyone could see. Like a taunt. A ‘look at this, I can have your girl killed in broad daylight and you still can’t touch me’.”

She was dead, plain to see. There was nothing at all he could’ve done for her. He’d touched her hand and recoiled at first, from the cool skin, the way it didn’t have the right amount of give that a living hand would’ve had, but gave that up after a second and steeled himself to touch her again while Cho called dispatch to get some guys out to help them.

Soon as Cho had finished he’d knelt down next to Nick. ‘It’s… god, it’s Jennifer, isn’t it?’ he’d asked. Nick had reached up and gently… gently brushed the hair off her cheek, and it was. Undeniable now. Flecks of blood and something else caught in her bangs, somewhere they had no right to be, and skin gone dull and lifeless, but it was her.

“They left a note with her before they skipped out, whoever had done it. Little folded piece of cardstock. No names on it and addressed to no one, but it was pretty damn obvious who it was meant for and what it was about. All it said was ‘Back off’.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

John’s still stiff and almost trembling with tension, shifting back and forth like he can’t quite figure out if he wants to give Nick some room or lean up against him again. Nick pulls him in closer and moves his hand to John’s back, rubbing over his shoulder blade and up to his neck.

“‘S’okay. But yeah. Cho cried. He knew her pretty well, we’d had him over for dinner loads of times. I couldn’t then, for some reason.” It had taken a while for it all to come down on him, Nick remembers. He’d been in the kitchen and picking up Jenny’s coffee cup from the dish rack had been the thing to finally set him off. He’d crashed to the floor, cup in hand and bawled with his face stuck to the worn plastic cushion on one of the chairs.

“I sat there with her and held her hand until the clean up crew and the captain came to get us. Kissed her cheek one last time,” _with the smell of her blood and gunpowder residue in my nose,_ “and told her goodbye and I went home.” _To our empty apartment._ “I helped bury her the next day.” _And I never_ really _got over the guilt I felt about all of it. Because it was me. I was the cause of it. I didn’t pull the trigger, I didn’t give the order, but I was the reason she was dead._ “I went through all the motions, and said all the things I needed to say, but the realization didn’t really come home for another couple days after that.

“And that was the thing. That was the start. We got too close to Winter and he snapped back and Jenny was the one who paid for it. I… well. Long story short here, I found him. Went to where he lived. Old Town. Widmark had taken me off the op, suspended it indefinitely as far as I knew. Didn’t get much of an explanation from him. I got the feeling it was above his head, and he was nearly as pissed as I was about it, personal feelings aside.

"And that never sat well with me. Winter finally makes a big, stupid, overt move like that and the whole thing gets shut down for good? Always wondered which of the higher ups was in his pocket. I had my suspicions, but that was the official end.

“So I was off it and on my own. I didn’t care about evidence or proof anymore. I was angry, and I was sick, and all I wanted was Winter dead. I stewed on it for weeks, everything just getting… darker and darker.” _Consumed_ was how he’d felt. Eaten alive by it. And the dreams. Jesus.

“Waited that long for things to die down, then went right back to it, one last time. It was either gonna be me or him, I decided then. At that time, I thought I had nothing to lose. Which couldn’t be further from the truth. But with her death so fresh in my mind… it eclipsed all rational thought.” Nick tilts his head and slides his eyes over to John again. “You remember I said he’d gotten sloppy?”

John nods, silent. Nick can see the way he’s breathing harder and that little frown line between his eyebrows is deep.

“That extended to his hires as well. His guards he had then weren’t exactly top quality. Green. Twitchy. They went out quick. Barely put up a fight at all.

“I got in there and he didn’t even know who I was or why I was in his office at first. But he put it together pretty quick. The clothes probably; the look on my face. The suspicious lack of warning for a visitor. But I was there, finally. Right where I needed to be.

“Standing in front of Winter, I lost every bit of control I’d cultivated up ‘til then.” _Felt like I was on fire. Just burning alive right there and about to explode._ “I’d like to say I had some clever line for him about revenge or screwing with the wrong guy, but I had no actual words. It was like I was nine again with a stick in my hand, ready to beat the shit out of the older kids who thought it was funny to shoot their slings and BB guns at Dima until he cried. Except my stick was now my sidearm and Jerry Robinson was now the scumbag who’d ordered my fiancée murdered.

“I killed him. Did it facing him; better than what Jenny’d got.”

_Watched the way he jerked back with each shot, watched the red bloom on his shirt and start to pink at the edges, watched him fall to the floor, clutching a holotape and the last glass of wine he was ever gonna drink._

_And felt nothing. No joy, no feeling of accomplishment, nothing that said I’d done right by Jenny in any way._

“I wasn’t careful or quiet about it. Doing it like that, it meant I was putting myself on a time limit; I’d just made a very calculated kill in cold blood, so not only would I be off the police force, if caught I’d be locked up and then possibly executed. And I’d just offed a very important cog in the machinery of the Chicago underworld, so I would be hunted down by their not inconsiderable resources if my ex-coworkers hadn’t already, y’know, put me to justice.”

John snorts angrily at that and mutters, _“Justice.”_

“So I got out of there. Ran all the way across town to my brother’s house before word inevitably got out. And he knew what I’d done right away. Saw the blood and he just _knew_ me besides that. That I couldn’t’ve let that one go. I told him. We yelled at each other. I called him a few things I regret and he said some stuff I doubt he really meant and that was it.” _He told me to get out, and I said I wouldn’t stay if I was being paid to._ “I walked back out his front door, grabbed a few things from the apartment, left my badge on the precinct steps, and put my feet to the road not even an hour after the fact.

“The end. That was the big, bloody finish to my life in Chicago.”

Nick sags where he sits, feeling drained. Body tired and just mentally emptied. But alright. Evened out. Just letting another person know that _this is what happened, I did this…_ it’s freeing. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and lets it all out. Nearly all of the people down below them have cleared out and gone back inside and it’s quieter. Still freezing too.

“Think I feel better,” Nick says.

“What the fuck, man.”

Nick smiles and looks at John. He looks… frazzled, for lack of a better word. Offended and lost at the same time, like he just got sucker punched by an invisible assailant. He’s staring out over at the Wall, still frowning. Nick smooths his hand over John’s back, rubs his thumb reassuringly over the bump of spine at the base of his neck.

“Told you it wasn’t nice. But it was good to…” Nick patters his fingers over John’s shoulder and then closes them around it. “Thanks for listening.”

John stares off. The faint look of anger and betrayal on his face is appreciated; the outrage on Nick’s behalf even though the cause is years past. 

“You killed him… a guy who’d been fucking with the city for years, and you _knew_ he’d killed Jenny… and you had to run? For fucking _that?”_

“Mmhm.”

“That’s _horseshit.”_

Nick laughs, without any real feeling behind it; just an acknowledgement of the absurdity of what had happened. “Unfair, huh? It’s just not always enough to be right. Context and phrasing matter a whole lot.” Though, Nick thinks, while that’s something he _knows,_ it’s not really something he’s incorporated. It’s a tough lesson to learn.

“Was it…” John starts after a minute, then cuts himself off.

“Mm?”

“Was it worth it? Killing him, if you knew what was gonna happen.”

 _‘Was it worth it?’_ That was something Dima had asked him that final night, that last, angry time they’d spoken. _‘What the hell have you done, Nick? Damn you, I’m going to have to leave too, aren’t I? They’re going to come after me if you’re not here. Well, was it worth it? Huh? Ruining what you’ve got here and this? What I’ve got?’_ He’d grabbed the back of a chair and slammed it hard into the wall. A very rare show of anger. And understandable, after such a colossal cock-up. _‘Jesus. I thought joining up with those guys taught you how to_ think.’

And it’s a question he’s asked himself a lot. Less frequently as time brings him away from it; it’s not something he likes thinking about. Maybe because he always knew the answer and it wasn’t one he liked. Didn’t stop him from lying to Dima about it at the time, though. Or himself. Still filled with fresh rage and sorrow and hoping that saying ‘yes’ would make it reality.

“You know what… no. It wasn’t.” And that hurts to say, another wrench at the muscles of his throat, but at least it’s the truth. Finally spoken. Pried loose of the deep, clinging earth and made to face light after half a decade. “Jennifer stayed dead, I had to leave, and I put my little brother in danger. Killing Winter didn’t make any of the hurt go away and it added a lot more. The only real consolation I got out of it was that… that he wouldn’t be able to do that to anyone else.

“But even that wasn’t really enough. It wasn’t Winter specifically, it was the city and the corrupt fat cats that were on the take from him and helping him hide. There were more Winters out there. And I could never take them all down, or even enough to make a dent; they were too numerous and too dug in. So, no. It wasn’t worth it.”

“I think it was,” John says, vehement. He turns to look at Nick and his eyes are blazing. “I think getting rid of a piece of shit like that was worth it.”

Nick pauses for a long while, feeling out the rest of it; looking from the long sweep of John’s lashes to the unhappy set of his mouth and the hard angle of his jaw clamped shut.

“Well. The way I went about it left a lot to be desired. But if I hadn’t… Would’ve been on my mind a lot, I can tell you that.

“If I could go back? And make the decision again, knowing what came of it… I don’t know. I don’t honestly know what I would do. But I did what I could, what I thought was right at the time, and lived with the consequences. Just wish I knew where Dima ended up so I could maybe go see him and apologize. Bet he made it somewhere nice. He’s resourceful.

“But what happened after wasn’t all bad. I was on the road for an awful long while. Spent some of it angry and lost, but that went away.” _Slowly, and with a lot of effort._ “Stopped a lot of places but never stayed more than a few months at a time. Saw a lot of things, met a lot of people, helped some of them, got help in return sometimes.” Nick brightens. “And I ended up here. Not too shabby. Guess we’ll see how long this one lasts.”

The stubborn anger on John’s face fades, replaced with something that might have been worry if he hadn’t schooled his face blank a split second later. And that’s appreciated too, however quick it was. “Thinkin’ about leaving?” John asks.

“‘Leaving’,” Nick repeats. “Not thinking about it, no. Seems like people get lost an awful lot around here and I’d like to do my part to remedy that if I can. I just… things don’t last forever, you know? Nothing does. I didn’t think I’d ever leave home; and it took a damn long time, but it did happen.”

Nick rolls the quilt aside and takes a glance at his watch. “But naw. I like it alright here. Believe I’ll stick around for as long as Diamond City can stomach me.”

John hums, sounding satisfied enough with that and cracks open another beer. Stares off at the Wall and the last six or so people still out with them. Face pointed up at the stars. Deep in thought.

Not that this city is the end all be all of good places to live, Nick thinks. Far from it. The one big thing that anyone with or without eyes could see is the canyon-deep class divide between the people who lives in the stands and those down on field level. There are exceptions, sure, but often there’s no more than a chilly veneer of civility when folks from either interact with each other. Nick himself has been on the receiving end of a few snooty looks, which honestly leave him more baffled than insulted. But it’s worse for those who’ve had to endure it for a long time. Tempers flare over it constantly, and really it’s a surprise it hasn’t come to a head yet and caused some kind of civil war. There’s still time. Or maybe one day those specific standers will recant their pompous ways and seek forgiveness and the ghouls and less affluent folk will grant it with equal parts grace and generosity. It could happen.

And there’s more, it’s never just the one. Security comes down really hard on anyone seen with chems out in the open, no matter how much or what kind. Drinking water’s at a premium even with the big filtration setup over on the east side of town. The highly-praised Wall’s got more holes in it than a bad liar’s story. Mayor Roberts, while genial enough one on one, is only a few steps shy of a tyrant in the way he runs the place. It’s effective, how he does things, but like the class divide it probably won’t last more than another three four years before something goes pop.

But it’s safe-ish. Clean. He’s got friends here; plenty of good people along with the snots. He has a bench. He’s got a nice place and there’s a call for the kind of work he can do. Every time a trader comes through he checks if they have any Japanese to English dictionaries so he can make the attempt to talk to old Takahashi in the middle of town. There’s a good radio station with an endearing DJ.

And of course, he’s got the kid to keep him on his toes.

He peeks at his watch again.

“You late for somethin’, Valentine?” John asks, eyebrow cocked high in faux offense. “Appointment you gotta keep? Want me to chug this and get outta your holo-star hair?”

The second hand tips leisurely up to twelve. “Oh, thank you. And nnno, no. Think I’m... right... on time, actually.”

“For what?”

Nick leans in and kisses him. He can feel an aborted jerk that probably means John almost just dropped his beer all over the both of them and then there’s a clink and both freezing hands are twining up into his hair to draw him in, promptly knocking his hat off. It’s nothing salacious, just warm and sweet and Nick hums at the feeling of soft, dry lips on his own and a rush of John’s breath on his cheek.

John looks both surprised and pleased when they break apart.

“Happy New Year, kid,” Nick says.

‘Ohhh,’ John mouths. Then, darting his eyes out presumably to make sure they’re still unobserved, he kisses Nick again. Once, softly, with a slow swipe of tongue over Nick’s lower lip before pulling back and putting some distance between them with a small frown on his face. Thinking hard on something. “Is this okay though? After— Are you really okay with…?” He makes a short, sweeping gesture at himself. At the two of them.

“Huh? Hey, I’ve been with people since,” Nick says, voice going higher with defensiveness which gets a laugh out of John. It’d been a rough start, however long ago that was, sure, but after a while of being disgusted with himself for the perceived betrayal, he eventually acknowledged that she would’ve probably forgiven him his needs. More and more sure of it as time went on.

 _“Obviously,”_ Nick adds, corner of his own mouth twitching up as he gives the kid a very pointed look. “Little late to worry about that, don't ya think. But yeah, none of this is… I don’t know that I’m _over_ it all, but I’m not letting it keep me from uh…”

“...from knockin’ boots with sweet young things like me?” John supplies helpfully.

Nick nods as he rolls his eyes. There’s that tact and modesty he loves so much. “Exactly what I was about to say. Anyone ever tell you you have a way with words?”

“Oh, hell yeah. All the time. John the Wordsmith.”

A shout goes up from somewhere behind them, across town as Nick scoffs at him and retrieves his hat; a faint call of ‘Happy New Year, Diamond City!’ A chorus answers it from all around them. Cheers and hoots and it sounds like someone down on the south side has a trumpet or maybe a trombone if the ugly (but hilarious) _blat_ that echoes out is any indication. John cups his hands around his face and joins in with the clamour.

And one last, lone voice pipes up after all the well-wishing and racket dies down, sounding just as happy as the rest of them, ‘Now go the fahk ta sleep, ya mothafuckas!’ More laughter and a few _fuck you!_ s float through the city.

“Yeah, he’s right,” John says. He eases back down against Nick’s side, cheeks red and eyes sparkling. “I gotta go soon. Still gotta be the good son for a few months and I’m already pushin’ my luck. They gave me The Look when I got home from the thing the other day and then I got the Please Just Be Careful Out There Talk again from ma after she bulldozed me into the bathroom.”

“Mmhm.” Not surprising. John’d had the reddest eyes Nick had ever seen and he’d still smelled a bit like a sweaty, perfumed brewery that had been briefly lit on fire when they parted ways outside of town. “Well, don’t push it; tempt not the wrath of an angry mother.” Nick squeezes his shoulder. “Thanks for the company.”

“Any time.” He doesn’t move to get up. Nick waits.

“I’d like to…” John is determinedly not looking at him as he picks over his words. “Hear more about her sometime. If you want. I mean.” He mutters _‘shit’_ under his breath and goes to stand up, cold air rushing in to take his vacated spot. “Yeah, time to split.”

He tenses when Nick follows him up around the corner and puts a hand on his elbow. Huffs and crosses his arms in a big display as he turns, leaning against the door back inside but with a wry smile on his face as he does so it can’t be _that_ dire.

“What, god damnit.”

“I’d like that,” Nick says, resting his hand on the door behind John’s tilted head. This’d meant something to the kid. Good. Meant something to Nick too. “And I’ll even tell you one thing right now.”

The half-awkward look is replaced by mild curiosity. “Uh huh?”

“She probably would’ve laughed herself sick at how I’ve been behaving around you,” Nick says with a sunny grin.

“Well, that makes two of us then, you irredeemable dork,” John says. But he’s smiling too.

“Breakin’ out the big words.”

“My bad, dude, I’ll try and tone that down for you.”

They stand there, grinning at each other like idiots until John jerks his head at Nick to come closer. He complies, getting a tongue in his mouth and hands dragging him by his belt into a slow, slinky grind for his efforts. And he’s not so cold anymore, how ‘bout that.

“Now lemme go or I’m tellin’ ma _you’re_ the reason I didn’t come home on time.” John pokes a finger into Nick’s chest and pushes him a step back with it. Then flattening his hand, he lets his palm slip slowly down Nick’s stomach to trail away just before it hits anything unmentionable. His eyes flare at the low grumble emanating from Nick. “Unless you’re actually gonna make it worth being late.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “And how’s that.”

“Well.” He turns his head to fix his mouth to Nick’s wrist, presses a kiss to the tracery of veins there before plucking it off the door. Another to the center of his palm, the web of his thumb, tips of his middle and ring finger. Before Nick has the wherewithal to even react to the sudden seduction of his right hand, John’s under his arm and spinning away toward the edge of the roof behind them.

“Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he says, grinning and crouching down to drop his legs off the side. “I lied, nothin’s worth catching hell from her.”

Nick sighs and collapses back where John just was, closing his hand and thunking heavily against the door in defeat. “I’m gonna remember that, kid.”

John’s hair whips up around his face and he throws a _look_ up at Nick and Nick gives it right back to him, even if his is a little more exasperated.

“Countin’ on it,” John says. “See ya.” He puckers his lips in a mock kiss and then slips off the roof and vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tease. Promise I’ll make it up to you.
> 
> And we've tipped the word count over to higher than Finding Someone, new record! *toots a party horn* 
> 
> Also went back and made a small edit to where Nick mentions Dima for the first time in the middle of chapter 11 to more accurately reflect this one.


	18. Rules Schmules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with some brazen porn, and oh so fun.

_January 18, 2281 1:30 PM_

 

There’s a change of rules in the city. Notices get posted up around town; in the market, over the wide sweep of the main entryway, the doors of both bars, the school, the tidy little non-denom church. Going by the annoyed mumble of the ghoul bent to read off the same fluttering piece of paper as Nick, it’s a bothersome but not unusual event.

“Believe this shit? Again,” he says as Nick shrugs back at him.

“What can you do.”

“Grin ‘n bear it I guess.” The ghoul hawks and spits as he moseys away. “Chrissakes.”

Nick tips the brim of his hat up, squints in, and scans it over one more time.

=

In order to continue to keep our fair city secure and safe for all, the Diamond City Council, in concordance with the mayor and his office, have enacted the following new rulings regarding entry to and movement around the city:

-The only entrance to be used henceforth is the main gate to the southwest, all others have been cordoned off and will be filled in in the coming months

-Security presence will be increased as resources become available (interested parties can interview with Chief Masterson in the security office)

-Visitors and select returning citizens will submit to a check of their persons and belongings upon re-entry to the city

-A similar check will be performed upon persons found walking city grounds between the hours of 11 PM and 6 AM

Thank you for your understanding and compliance,

Henry Roberts, Mayor

Eustace Hawthorne, Councilmember

=

He knows the cause of this. Raiders and slavers and mutants all are always pushing for ground or new blood, and while the security teams and hired guns do their damndest to keep things tight, the city-side body count has been on the rise. Body count and not-so-inexplicable disappearances both.

But then the real, actual event that lit a fire under the council’s collective ass? Not common knowledge, the ins and outs of city defense, but the sassy-pants journalist down the way’s been taking a hard look around for a long time and put out her own freshly pressed flyers a week or so ago. They sarcastically detailed the many safety failings of Diamond City and certainly hadn’t held back about letting everyone know _exactly_ whose leadership was to blame for the constant losses and close calls.

Brave of Ms. Wright to do; heart’s in the right place for sure. Get the citizens a little scared and riled up, but word the thing in just the right way that they’ll ask to help fix what’s wrong instead of just rioting or going out of their way to spit on the creaky lift up to the mayor’s office. The exposé’d put her right smack in the worst graces of the governing body if only for the embarrassment it caused, but it did get results. There’d already been a motion to hunt down bricks and mortar to start patching up a few run-down spots and a lot of volunteers for sentry duty to relieve those that are overworked. Nick himself had put his name down for a few shifts here and there.

People aren’t gonna be happy about this new statute; Nick’s not very happy about it himself, but it is what it is. Price of safety.

 

_January 22, 2281 3:45 AM_

 

Nick wakes. Seemingly for no reason, though it feels very sudden and complete for it to have been causeless. He hears nothing in his room, sees nothing in the dark. Feels the cool air of the room on his face and the warmth of his body under the blankets, the stiffness in his shoulder where it’s bent back under his pillow, the tickle of his own hair brushing across his forehead.

Then there’s voices. And he knows something’s up because of how clear they are. Not close or loud enough for the source to be inside, but it’s the echoey way they sound when _the front door is open_ and someone’s talking down the short alleyway. Nick’s on his feet in a second and quietly scrabbling his gun out of the holster looped over the bedpost.

He's been in this house long enough to know which stairs not to tread on if he wants to be silent. To trace the right side of the wall as he hits the ground floor to avoid where the boards are sagging and talkative in the middle. Take a bigger step here because there’s a pair of wire cutters and the soldering gun that only works half the time lying in wait.

There’s time enough to realize the door is open only a sliver, cold, misty air gusting through it before Nick gropes out along the wall and flicks the light on, revolver grip solid in his other hand. Even the soft yellow light of the office overheads is enough to near-blind him, but he can still see a washed-out John crouching next to the door peering out. He squeaks and whirls around to throw himself at Nick, all scrunched-up eyes and outstretched arms.

“Gah, off, turn it back off,” he whispers.

He does, with John’s cold hands clawed over his own and their chests pressed up together so hard he can feel both their loud heartbeats. It’s dark again and even harder to see anything with swirling rainbows of afterimages staggering across his vision. Footsteps scrape by outside and they both hold their breath.

There’s not enough weight to the door for it to fall shut on its own and they hear a quiet curse from outside. Someone says, “Went this way, right?”

 _Fantastic,_ Nick thinks, glancing down at the body frozen in his arms. _I’m harboring a fugitive._

A wheezy voice replies, “C’mon, keep movin’ then; check the gardens,” and the sounds move on and away.

Time resumes.

“Nice night, uh?” John murmurs from Nick’s chest. Nick’s still got him in a death grip and he’s not about to let go. “How you doin’?”

Nick closes his eyes and squeezes, gratified to hear John’s breath rush out in a surprised little _erk!_

“I’ll let you know when the heart attack passes, you goddamn _jackass,”_ Nick whisper-shouts into his forehead. “What the hell are you doing in here? Christ, I was halfway to putting a bullet through you! _Again.”_

Nick’s been squeezing steadily harder the whole time and finally lets him go as he finishes his half-hearted scolding. John sucks in a breath of air and expels it all right away again in a muffled gust of giggling as Nick's revolver gets relinquished to the top of the filing cabinet. “Sorry,” he chokes out. “Sorry, I was way closer to your place than mine. Didn’t—” he hacks and Nick pats him on the back.

“And what the hell time is it?” Nick continues as John coughs, hands dug into his shoulder and hip to keep him still in the gloom. “I know with the Alpar case it kinda made it look like I’m up at all hours, but I actually like to sleep when the sun’s not up. Like right now.”

“I was _saying,_ I panicked, okay? I didn’t mean t’make this a fucking social call or anything. I was gonna leave as soon as they did.”

“I don’t care how long it’s for, you can’t just break in here whenever you feel like it. I thought you were...” Nick blows out a growling breath and lets his head knock back against the wall. “...And didn’t you see that new ordinance?” Even as he asks, he knows that’s exactly the reason John’s out right now. Running the guards around the city like it’s a sport. And wouldn’t that’ve been a sight to see.

“Oh, I saw it.”

“Didn’t care?”

“Wanted to see how serious they were.”

“Yeah? And what’d you find out,” Nick says, wanting to laugh with frustration. His heart is still pounding and body is still jazzed up for a fight it’s not going to get. He’s shaky and his airways are very, very clear; he can easily smell the cigarettes and mentats on John’s breath, stronger than the mud and puddle water soaking his pant cuffs and dripping on the floor. There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep after this. Jesus.

“Well, I found out you’re almost as serious about it as the nightshift is,” John says, finally flexing his arms and straining against Nick’s chest. “What’s your problem?” He gets one arm free and uses it to tug Nick by the hair, dozens of little pain points flaring to life and making him grit his teeth. John leans into him, chasing after the skin he’s exposed and puts his lips to Nick’s throat, lets their hips and thighs touch in a rough clash. “Huh, Valentine? What. Go close your fucking door.”

“You close it, you opened it,” Nick snaps.

“Fuck you, leave it open then. I don’t give a shit.”

 _Or maybe I will get that fight,_ Nick thinks as he detangles himself and brushes John to the side. He can feel John on his heels, imagine the taut stretch of his muscles as he stalks over the floor after him.

Something in Nick, some mean, feisty part of him tucked away in a corner, leaps in elation when he hears John’s foot come down heavier than before and feels a small hand with delicate fingers close tight around the back of his arm. Nick twists in his grip and grabs John right back, flips him around neatly and slams him (not as hard as he could) face-first into the door, latching it shut with an extra bump (hopefully inaudible from outside) and a huff of surprise.

John struggles against him, trying to shove against the door with his forearms and cranking his head to the side to glare back over his shoulder. His eyes look furious and he’s sucking in deep, rattling breaths but it’s all done through the filter of his smiling teeth. He’s not heavy or strong enough to shift Nick’s bulk against his back, but he still tries. Aims petulant kicks at Nick’s ankles with his wet boots until Nick pushes even harder against John’s back, crushing the air out of him.

 _“Why are you like this?”_ is what Nick mutters into the curls at the crown of his head, damp with condensation from outside.

John just laughs. Weak and breathless, but it’s a genuine, teasing laugh.

“Because it works,” he says. And he bends his knees just enough so he can slowly straighten back up, sliding the chilly curve of his backside up over where Nick is half-hard in his pajama bottoms. “Or am I wrong.”

Nick responds by leaning back and smushing John’s face against the door, cradling it in one big palm and holding him there. “You’re a headache, is what you are.” But he then goes ahead and admits how right John is by returning the motion, rolling his hips and rubbing his cock up over John’s ass and lower back, over the rough drag of denim seams and leather belt. Tries not to let loose the sounds that want to come out and compromises with a forceful breath out over the nape of John’s neck.

John chuckles again as he does it, sagging into the door. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Thought so.”

Nice as the front door is, with the scuffed paint and the cold, dead-of-night air swirling in from the gap underneath, Nick goes ahead and relocates them somewhere slightly more sensible. He doesn’t have the patience to get all the way back upstairs, probably with the kid dragging his feet the whole way just to be a jerk, so his spare desk it is. Pencils and binder clips clatter to the floor as he sweeps the side of it clean and crams John down on it, face up and then he’s back to snarling and thrashing around trying to dislodge Nick’s grip on him; a tough pursuit with Nick standing between his legs and one hand heavy over his heaving chest. It’s an odd sound John makes as Nick smacks his hands away and drags him downward by an ankle, throaty growls on the inhale and whiny moans on the exhale.

“Okay?” Nick asks. He pulls their hips flush and gets a flailing heel to the back of his thigh for it.

“Okay,” John snaps back as he wrenches his shoulders back and forth and wraps a hand around Nick’s forearm, digs his nails into the skin. It seems like he’s trying to pull Nick close and shove him as far away as he can at the same time. “Very okay. In fact, you could stand to hurry the fuck up if you wanted to.”

For once, Nick doesn’t really feel like arguing the point; though he does make a token effort, murmuring ‘I’ll get to it when I damn well feel like it’ as he pries the grabby hand on his arm off. But in all honesty Nick’s just as impatient for it as John is and he’s already gathering both thin wrists in one hand and pushing them over the kid’s head as he says it, their hands skidding over the blotter and a loose sheet of newspaper. John’s back arches up; whether in another failed bid to get away or to rub himself up against Nick’s stomach, he’s not sure. And as John stares up, his lips lift in a way reminiscent of when a dog’s just about pissed enough to bite.

“You gonna be good if I try and kiss you, kid?” Nick asks, leaning over his captive; faces a few inches apart and the bed-soft fall of Nick’s hair almost in his eyes.

John’s all teeth when he answers. Tendons strain in his neck as he raises his head and licks his lip, leaving it pink and wet. “Try it.”

So he does, and gets bitten for it, of course. Though really, Nick didn’t want or expect anything different. His lip throbs but he pushes down against John again, using his free hand to cup his jaw. Which comes with the added bonus of being able to dig his thumb into the hinge of John’s teeth through his cheek so they can’t snap together ‘til he decides to let go. John’s legs curl around his hips, feet press up against Nick’s thighs and slide up to his ass to encourage him closer. The kid’s mouth is wedged slackly ajar and it sounds like he’s laughing as Nick gently kisses over his immobile mouth and cheek.

“Athhole,” John lisps. Nick nips him back for that.

“Now get this fucking jacket off me before I burn to death,” he says seconds later after Nick lets him loose. His mouth is pressed to the kid’s neck, feeling the hot jump of his heartbeat; he closes his eyes for a second and just feels the steady rush of blood under his skin until John grunts impatiently at him.

Nick unzips him and strips the thing off, prepared for the hand flying at him and taking the shot on his arm. He twists him back down into submission, thumping him onto the desk and chucking his jacket over the chair as John keeps up a steady stream of curses with both middle fingers standing straight up from his fists.

Nick sighs. “You wanna settle down anytime soon?” Half of him hopes he does, but the other half is just fine with how things are going. Irritated but okay with it.

John lets a smile seep through as he settles back again for the moment, readjusts; tilts and curls himself into some coy, seductive tableau instead of that pinned rabid animal look he’s been affecting. But that look’s still in his eyes, betraying the ferocity he still has underneath it all. So the answer’s no.

He shifts his hips, clearly straining in his jeans and eyes Nick up slowly, voice a low, raspy purr. “Maybe you should cuff me. Maybe that’d work.”

“That is not what those are for,” Nick says. He tries to make the words come out stern, but they wind up slightly breathless instead. John smirks at him, the words ‘they could be’ dancing across his face.

Nick puts his hands to the hem of John’s shirt and pushes it up, fingers trailing over hot skin. He bends over him and kisses what he uncovers, hipbone, navel, nipple, collarbone, trying to take his damn time but it’s not really working when he just wants to rip his clothes apart and get their bodies pressed together as quick as possible. Shirt goes up, and after a moment of fumbly panting with his forehead resting on John’s chest, jeans come down.

“You… ah.” Nick says, drawing them over slim, naked hips, “...appear to be missing something.”

“It’s laundry day,” John says, distracted and much more interested in where Nick’s hands might be going than his lack of undergarments. “C’mon. Touch me.” He twists his hips and his dick sways side to side, all of it very, very hard and arcing up against the dark gold hair inching up his belly. God, the body on this kid. “Touch my cock.”

Nick just puts a hand to John’s hip instead, holding him still at two points. He raises an eyebrow at John who looks back at him, lip caught between his teeth and eyes light rings of smouldering blue.

“Touch my cock _what.”_

“Funny, Nick. Like you don’t want to,” John says, tracking Nick’s hand as the thumb rubs patiently over his hipbone, tracing the curve of it. And he does want to. But he’s maybe not quite ready to just give the kid what he asks for. Not after almost running Diamond City’s night guards right into his office. He moves his palm down the inside of John’s thigh instead, tickling over the fine hair and back up in a firm sweep as John’s legs fall open and he makes a noise a little too gravelly to be a whine.

“Come _on_ you fucking _fuck.”_ His teeth are grit together and his wrists are straining even harder against Nick’s hands and it seems like if John were quite a bit younger he might be slamming the heels of his feet against the edge of the desk in thwarted anger. It’s tough not to laugh at the thought, but Nick feels like if he does the kid might really get mad and slip free of this crap hold he has him in and storm out.

He doesn’t laugh, but he does tease the kid mercilessly. Lightly pinching a nipple, rolling it between his fingers; dragging a nail down his throat to the middle of his stomach; a barely-there touch over the silky skin of the join of leg to body; petting over the cheek of his ass where his legs are splayed open enough. John breathes faster as he goes, a new stutter in his breath for each touch and mouth running rampant the whole time which is wonderful to listen to _(‘What, you just gonna fucking tickle me—ah!—the whole time? Who the fuck taught you how to be so fucking irritating? Jesus bitching Christ god damn it, you total asshat.’)._ After a lot of torture, Nick’s fingertips graze softly up over John’s balls, the skin pulling up tight and that turns out to be the thing that breaks him.

“Fuck, _fuck.”_ There’s a sharp, high noise and John whimpers out, _“Please.”_

So Nick graciously gives it up, rewards him by curling his hand around John and giving him several long, very firm strokes that make him drive his hips up to meet each one. Nick leans in and tries kissing him again as he eases his fist over his cock. No teeth or thrashing this time, just lips and soft tongue and wet heat and John moaning under him.

“Can I let you go now? You gonna work with me?” Nick asks against his mouth, nosing against the soft down of John's cheek. “Or are you really gonna make me do this one-handed like this.”

John huffs. “Getting tired already?”

“You did scare a couple years off me and completely interrupt my sleep. I still had another… what, four or five hours depending.” Admittedly, he’s getting more used to being woken or awake at these late-early times and the interruptions aren’t all bad. But yeah, at this moment he is getting a little tired of simultaneously holding down a violently squirming adult while trying not to crush all the delicate little bones he’s leaning on. Nick raises an eyebrow. “The absolute least you could do is stop trying to slap me while I’m jerking you off.”

John’s eyes widen and then all of him relents with a giggly laugh and a sudden un-tensing of everything. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m done,” he says, smiling. Smiling nicely this time, not that feral-ghoul-hiding-in-a-dark-alcove-I’m-gonna-bite-ya smile. Nick lets go and John’s hands come down, flex once, then fasten over Nick’s biceps. They slide down, one falling to the desk, and one to where Nick’s wrapped around him. His hand covers Nick’s and draws it up, guiding him and squeezing harder and staring Nick down as he does it. “For now. For today. I— _fuck yeah, just like that—_ I’m done.”

Nick kisses him and falls back into their shared pocket of heat, melts into it; rubs himself on the back of John’s thigh and leans their foreheads together to look down at John’s heaving, sweat-slicked torso. At where his own hand is sliding up, thumb pressing slowly along the underside. John’s flesh hard and flushed. His hands curled loosely at his sides as he murmurs how good it feels. Knees flexing tight around Nick’s hips. All of him long and lithe and fey and, at least right here and now, open and all for him. And like always, it’s a lot to take in.

And he wants… he _wants._

“Kid,” Nick breathes.

“Mmm.”

Nick can’t help but feel he’s about to do something radically stupid. He frowns and swallows around the words sticking in his throat, skin hot with exertion and nerves.

“Stay still for a minute, would you?” he says anyway, barely able to put any volume to it. His hand slows and he chews on his lip as he takes in John’s nigh on rapturous face. If all he does is end up embarrassing himself with this, it couldn’t happen with a better guy. “Don’t grab me.”

John makes a considerably unsure sort of noise (perfectly complementing the state of mind Nick’s landed himself in) but still manages a ‘sure?’, holding himself motionless as he is and laying his palms flat over whatever papers they haven’t already bumped off the desk to the floor.

It’s a short trek to where he wants to go, where this spur of the moment decision is pointing him. Nick’s mouth traces down the side of John’s neck, gliding over the sweat on him and finding a tiny patch of stubble he’d missed shaving; down the pale expanse of chest with his own hair flopped forward and dragging in his wake; down John’s trembling stomach, a shadow of a bruise here by his hip that Nick kisses before turning his head inward.

There’s a whole body shudder from John as he puts it together. Nick faintly hears him say, _“Oh…_ my god.”

And then his lips settle on the firm, hot curve of John’s cock where it’s still resting in his hand.

He feels John’s arms jerk up right as he does it, hears him tear in a ragged, unbelieving breath and immediately draws back a couple inches to look up at him. John’s hands are hooked into startled claws and his eyes are wide and his mouth partly open.

“Don’t,” Nick repeats, bristling and already halfway to bolting or going for John’s hands but hoping he doesn’t have to.

“I’m not.” John’s hands clench shut and creak open again, like he’s not even sure what they’re doing off the desk. He draws them up and rests them over his bare chest, digging his fingertips into his skin and everything rising and falling with his deeper breaths. “Sorry. I’m not, I just. Fuck. What. _Yes._ Holy fucking shit.”

Eyes still on John, and now it looks like he’s trying to claw his way through his own ribs with how tightly he’s holding himself, Nick lowers his head again. Pulse racing just as fast as anything, he kisses him again. Presses over the silky skin in a slow, tentative touch and then lets his lips fall open and does it again like that.

It’s fine, really, is what Nick tells his burning hot palms and face and his tightened breathing. It’s fine. It’s just new, he just isn’t really sure what he’s doing, it’s just, yeah, what John said once: pretty gay, but it’s fine.

It _must_ be because god, he’s hard as a rock.

And part of that isn’t even really true; in some roundabout way he does know what he’s doing. He’s got a dick, he knows what feels good.

“Am I allowed to look?” comes from beyond the stiff tangle of arms. John’s hands come loose and pile over his head, muffling him even more. “Please don’t say no, I really, _really_ wanna see this.” And he sounds so damn strained and earnest about it that denying him is only a brief blip in Nick’s mind, there and gone.

“Yeah, go on.”

John shifts, slowly bringing his elbows down and sliding them back to prop himself up. Tilts his head against his shoulder and for one brief, burning moment, Nick’s got his tongue clumsily dragging up John’s cock and his eyes locked with his. John’s teeth are dug into his lip and he’s got a look on his face like he wants to attack Nick again, maybe for real this time. Just throw Nicky right to the floor and crawl overtop him and get that knife out of his back pocket and slit the shirt right off him and then who knows what. And another time maybe that’d be okay. But the kid keeps himself still like he said, eyes dark and hands braced on the desk and Nick lowers his gaze back to his self-appointed task as John moans his name and mutters gentle curses at him.

It’s easier than he thought, or maybe John’s just on a hair trigger tonight. He strokes him and gets his mouth around him after a few psych-up kisses and broad, flat-tongued licks, not too put off by the taste or the slimy sensation coating his tongue; it’s not terribly unfamiliar at this point anyway. His lips wrap around the tip and then he’s sucking and pushing himself down, encouraged by John humming at him to keep going, fuck, you feel perfect and his feet sliding up the outsides of Nick’s thighs. The weight on his tongue and the feeling of having something so solid completely filling his mouth, that’s a little odd. Nick idly wonders how far he can go before he runs out of room or gags himself; tries it on a whim.

Turns out it’s all the way, no choking or spluttering, somewhat to his surprise, and then John twitches inward with a huge outrush of breath, stomach muscles tightening and he’s telling Nick to get off, get up, oh fuck he’s gonna—

Nick pulls off in time to both not get a mouthful and to watch John come all over himself, teeth grit and hips arcing out like a drawn bow and fingernails scraping over paper and shellacked wood. The scare and the scuffle and the sore lip mighta been worth it just to see this, Nick thinks, licking his lips and running the curl of his fist over John’s cock in short, hard strokes. John’s beautiful even at the worst of times, but seeing him in the throes of orgasm is somethin’ else. Angelic is a word Nick’s hesitant to use for it, but it’s really not too far off the mark. Holy shit.

John’s barely got the last of it out of his system before Nick’s yanking his pants down and swinging John’s still damp ankles over his left shoulder. And before John can even manage a ‘What’s wha?’, Nick tucks himself into the soft, hot press of John’s thighs and finishes himself off just like that. He digs his teeth into the denim covering John’s calf, breathing hot through the cloth as he thrusts and watches John still coming down and relaxing into a loose sprawl.

John’s eyes slip open and he’s got an absolutely daffy smile on his face. He reaches down and gathers himself up, giving his dick one last hard stroke from base to tip and shuddering as he does it. He looks at Nick. Trails up from the wet patch on his own thighs up to where his legs are resting and then lingers on Nick’s slack, panting mouth. Probably red and damp and really apparent he just... uh...

“Don’t say a word,” Nick says, out of breath and holding up a hand to further prevent the broadcasting of whatever vulgarities the kid’s cooking up.

“Aw, what? Man.” John’s eyes go wide with faux-innocence, still grinning.

“Not a one.”

“Well aren’t you just the opposite of fun.”

Nick shrugs his agreement.

After he wipes his legs off, John smears his hand over his last dry section of stomach and then jerks his jeans back up to his hips. “Fine,” he says, dragging the word out. He hooks his shirt over his head, leaving it looped around his shoulders (framing his chest and neck very nicely, Jesus) and sighs contentedly, gesturing at the mess coating almost his entire torso. “You gonna clean me up or you gonna make me sneak home with jizz all over my poor self? That ain’t right.”

Nick tilts his head toward the stairs and pulls the kid to his shaky feet.

They go up and Nick gets John as presentable as he’s got the capacity for again and when he’s done, John pulls Nick down into bed beside him in an ungainly flop. He props himself up on one arm and practically leers at Nick.

“So.”

Nick closes his eyes and throws an arm across them too for good measure. And it had all been going so well. _“Now_ you’re gonna start, huh.”

“No, shut up,” John says. “I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ about getting a super hot blow job from a first timer who ap _par_ ently doesn’t have a gag reflex.” His hand traces a circle over Nick’s hip and then latches on hard as he scoots down to get right up next to Nick’s uncovered ear. Warm puffs of air brush against his neck as he murmurs there, deep and raspy and pushing his nose through Nick’s hair and letting his lips tickle his skin. “What’s that about, huh? Teach me your ways, master.”

Nick pointedly rolls away from him, holding in the big, stupid laugh that wants to come out. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“No, I’m not.” John squeezes Nick’s own now-unprotected ass (rolling over was probably not a wise maneuver). “Not yet.” And then he smacks him, the unexpected sting of it driving a bark of surprise out of Nick. “You want me to be? You have no idea how fucking annoying I can get.”

Nick laughs then, can’t hold it in anymore. He laughs and John laughs with him and drags his teeth over the back of his neck.

“Why do I even like you?” Nick mumbles into his pillow, a smile still on his face. _So many reasons._

“Oh, I know this one,” John purrs, scooting up closer. He walks the fingers of one hand over Nick’s waist and then reaches over to shove his hand right down Nick’s pants. He palms over him for a moment before giving his soft cock an impudent stroke. The slow touches are cold and rude and comforting, really. “Cuz I put out and my jokes are almost as bad as yours.”

“And you don’t know what personal boundaries are.”

“Sure. Just like I don’t know I’m not s’posed to be out at night.”

_Touché._

“Speaking of that...” Nick starts, taking his arm off his eyes.

This might be a dumb thing to offer, maybe not along the lines of ‘too much too fast’ but rather too domestic? too symbolic?, but it’s… it seems like a logical enough leap to make. And it’s not like it’s as dumb as say bringing a completely inexperienced person along with him on a kidnapping rescue or running off to dangerous parties obediently unarmed or getting deeply enamored with a twenty year old chem slinger and chronic rule breaker. But, to his ongoing shock, John’s never made him regret any of it.

“...if I go get you a key made will you stop breaking in here? You’re gonna foul up my door.”

“That’s not how picking locks works, but uh. Yeah. Wouldn’t need to.” John stops and sounds utterly disbelieving when he continues. “Really?”

“As long as you announce yourself somehow cuz I’m about done with finding people _in my house_ where I didn’t think there were any,” Nick says with a wry smile. “Yeah, really.”

“Cool. Okay.”

Minutes pass. Nick plucks at John’s hand through his pants where he still hasn’t stopped lazily fondling him. “You bored or tryin’ to get something else out of me? Cuz I don’t think I can do that anymore.”

John ignores him. “Y’know, I just realized. I come see you all the fuckin’ time and you don’t even know where I live, huh.”

Nick shakes his head. He’d never asked; figured the kid would get to telling him on his own time if he ever did. “Mm mm.”

“Not that I’m expecting you over for brunch or anything…”

“Aw.”

“...oh, okay. Maybe I’ll invite you sometime then. But. I dunno. Need to get a hold of me it’s the little grey house on the southeast side sorta near the reservoir. Buncha ferns and carrot plants and hubflowers in pots out front.” John snorts. “Dad plants ‘em and makes Charlie take care of them when they’re out working. ...And I should probably get goin’, huh? You look like you’re asleep already.”

“Shoulda been this whole time,” Nick grouches.

“Yeah, eat me.” John tweaks him before pulling back and hopping up to his feet. Nick wriggles back under his pile of blankets as John goes, already sorta missing his chilly fingers and bony hips. “Well, if I haven’t called in that brunch date by next week, you’ll know I got tossed in the holding cell tryin’ to get home. You’re gonna come break me out, right?”

Nick just waves an impatient hand at him and lets his eyes fall shut to the sound of the kid’s laughter and boots trailing down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder why I like the ‘Person A breaks into Person B’s house when they’re asleep and then they bang’ scenario so much. Cheap scares? And why does John/Hancock seem like he’d do that as often as he can get away with. Mysteries of the universe.


	19. Just Like That Rockwell Song

_January 28, 2281 9:15 AM_

 

Oblivious as he is about who wants to get into his pants, Nick likes to think that over the years he’s developed a decent enough sense for when something’s not quite right. Slightly different from the _danger_ sense, lord knows there’s enough of that everywhere at all times so as to keep that particular alarm system constantly blaring, it’s more that feeling for when stuff in general’s going just a little off-kilter.

He’s being watched.

He gets the feeling first when he leaves in the morning; the barest prickle of eyes on him right as he turns the corner of his building and heads around the pathways of the little residential block and out the city gate with its new halo of guards. He takes a few backwards glances as he goes. Sees nothing. Once he’s out the gate he takes a seat on the plinth of the old, patinaed statue out front. Sits and has a smoke and picks at the crumbling concrete under him and waits to see if anyone follows him out. No one does by the time he almost burns his knuckles so he picks up and continues on with his errands.

 

_January 29, 2281 11:30 AM_

 

And again at the market the day after. Shopping around at Myrna’s, hoping for some un-corroded diodes and transistors but coming up empty with an added annoyed huff from the lady in question. He still can’t locate the source of the uneasy feeling and he has to admit, he’s more than a little curious about who would be tailing him around. John wouldn’t have the patience for this kind of silent, intermittent stalking, ditto Arturo (plus no motive— plus he’s currently busy running a line of patter at a customer holding a rifle scope a few stalls down), and Nick’s not welcome at the Taphouse so it’s not the Bobrovs and company hunting him down for disloyalty. Someone lookin’ to hire him but too shy to step forward? Courier with a piece of mail for him who keeps getting cold feet for some reason? Something a little more sinister than all that?

Maybe it’s Nick’s turn as the subject of Piper’s next smear piece. The horror.

So he slowly turns his back to Myrna and her bot and his eyes coast around seeing nothing out of the usual. He spreads his hands in a kind of ‘well, what do you want’ gesture; easily read if there really is someone keeping an eye on him, but vague enough for him to not come across as a crazy person provoking the air if his mind’s gone and fabricated this whole thing. Challenge so issued, Nick heads back home and waits for come what may as he putters around the back of the office.

No knock, no nothing.

He closes up shop feeling slightly aggravated.

 

_January 31, 2281 1:00 PM_

 

And one more time when Nick takes his lunch at Power Noodles along with a good chunk of the rest of the city. The seats are filled and some folks are leaning up against the counters or huddling around the little cook fire on the side of the building. He’s sitting next to a heavyset guy in a faded suit and they’re companionably shooting the breeze as they eat. They talk about the weather, Nick asks when the warmer season starts up around here and the guy tells him oh, not for another two months; they talk about the new curfew, both agreeing it’s a pretty serious annoyance but if it gets the death toll down it’ll have been worth it; about when the next big caravan’s due in; about some girl in town who decided to try scaling the side of the Atomatoys HQ for a lark.

It’s a good chat. Very normal, nothin’ weird about it.

Up ‘til the midway point where Nick realizes he actually recognizes the slope of the guy’s eyes, his fidgety fingers, and too many of his speech patterns. And there it is. That not-quite-right-feeling is sitting right next to him in a suit and tie with his mouth full and a fork in one hand.

Nick keeps the conversation moving along, but eventually he’s gotta bring it to a grinding halt. After four days, Nick’s not really in the mood to just pretend this is normal and let it all go by the wayside.

“Alright, what’s this about?” Nick asks, turning in and dropping his voice to an undertone.

“Sorry?” He stops mid-sentence; brows lifting, mouth pinching in, eyes going wide.

 _Jeez,_ Nick thinks, _he even does the ‘who, me?’ expression the same way._

“You’re John’s brother, aren’t you.”

“I ah…” Charlie looks incredibly embarrassed at being caught out for the few seconds Nick lets him be.

“And you’ve been watching me,” Nick adds, but with a smile to soften the accusation. “How come?”

“I was.” The breath he was holding rushes out and his cheeks have gone red. He nods and runs his fingers over the short, scruffy moustache that’s struggling to fill in over his lip. “I apologize.”

“Made me a little nervous there, but I don't have a bullet in my back or a grenade wire attached to my door handle so I’ll just say it's no harm no foul.”

This isn’t at all the reaction Nick was expecting, kind of more expected anger or something loud and accusatory over fumbly hesitation, but this works.

“Okay, glad to hear it. I really am sorry, _and_ for this. I was going to say something and then I lost track of it, and then I knew you knew and… ergh.” Charlie blows another breath out and pulls his hat off to scratch at his forelock, looking the very picture of flustered. Nick tries to keep the amused look off his face but knows he fails when he sees the same thing grudgingly mirrored in front of him.

“I was just. Concerned,” he continues, each word very pronounced but still at a quiet volume, letting the roar of the other patrons drown them out. “For my brother.” Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “This isn’t... Can I start again?”

“Please, by all means.”

Charlie nods and starts again, frowning into his still faintly steaming soup. “John’s been in a funny mood lately, in general. He doesn’t try to pick fights with me quite as often or snap at me every time I’m standing too close or just ‘looking’ wrong. Our parents don’t know why he’s doing it, they’re just glad he’s evened out a bit.” He pauses and meets Nick’s eyes again. “But I’m around him more than they are and he’s, in his way, mentioned you more than a time or two. So I wanted to see who he was so impressed with. Getting a name from him is a strange enough thing, getting the same name for over a month is something else entirely.”

Nick suddenly feels very deeply flattered by that and also a little saddened. “And?” he says, resting his cheek on his knuckles and raising an eyebrow. _Not_ holding his breath for the answer. Not trying to nervously curl his toes around the rungs of the barstool. “What’s the verdict?”

Charlie finally smiles, a real one, appraises Nick and says, “You’re far, far too polite to be friends with the likes of him.”

Nick snorts.

Charlie keeps his smile on his face, but his eyes sober up and they probe into Nick’s. “And on the other side of that same coin, he’s pretty free-spirited. Wouldn’t you say?” It’s phrased as a question, but everything in the way he says it means it’s not.

 _Why yes. Yes, I_ would _say,_ thinks Nick, his face schooled carefully neutral as his mind shrieks hysterically. _I haven’t had so much sex thrown at me since the time I accidentally stumbled into a very at-capacity underground brothel in Columbus when they were having a special on stimulants and whippits._

Out loud he says, “Very much so,” and forces back the ill-timed smirk that wants out. This is serious, (serious enough that Nick’s annoyed and significantly leery at having this discussion in public) but it’s also been so long since he’s gotten anything even approaching the ‘So, you’re the wiseguy dating my daughter/sister’ talks he used to get that this is giving him a big kick in the nostalgia. It’s even more terrifying this time (and almost surreal, considering Nick’s and John’s roles in this whacked-out courtship of theirs), but it’s also familiar and the concern is sweet.

“And he’s young. Comparatively.”

Yeah. ‘Uncomfortably’, he might as well have said.

“I know. I’ve mentioned it a few times.” Easy words but said with all the solemnity Nick can conjure. It’s something that’s never far from his mind. And at this point in time it’s probably the biggest, heaviest sword being dangled overhead.

Charlie nods and tilts his head in an ‘I expected that’ motion.

“Is it going to be a problem?” Nick asks with a sigh. Charlie’s been very easy and open about this thus far but, as everyone breathing knows, a fair piece of the time people don’t act the way they feel. Nick doesn’t think he’d be half so composed if their positions were reversed and they were talking about his own twenty year old brother. “Not… trying to sound tough, just curious. Genuine question.”

Again, Nick’s feeling just how precarious his situation is here. The more people know, the looser the potential footing is and he’s a little scared of the answer he’s about to get. A few times he’s pondered on the ‘is it worth it’ question; with the paranoia and secrecy and his own inability to keep a mental distance on one side but then on the other… how just seeing John or joking with him or getting to kiss him brightens up his whole stupid day.

So he’s thought about it, and every time so far the answer has been yes. For as long as it’s possible, he wants it.

Charlie raises his eyebrows. “With me? No.”

Nick visibly relaxes.

“I… ” Charlie wipes a hand across his face and looks like he’d rather be doing anything else besides discussing his brother’s endeavors in this territory and Nick can’t say he really blames him. “I know it’s tough around here for… that. But I don’t hold with the indecency laws Mayor Roberts cares so much about and—”

Nick holds up a hand. “Here, hang on. Indecency laws? First I’ve heard of that.”

“Oh, yeah? Guess it’s not so surprising, they’re old and unofficial,” Charlie says as he leans his elbow on the counter. “But still enforced, depending on who catches it. Discouragement of public chem use, not allowing ghouls in the higher levels of the city, same for eh, hm, non-traditional relationships. I know that last one is a hold-over from years ago of trying to get people to have more children. There’s more and most of them don’t have much point these days.”

And that… is not really something he’s actively noticed but if Nick thinks back on it now… he’s right. He’s never seen two guys or two girls together, not within city limits anyway; holding hands or kissing or even an arm around the waist or the like. If it does happen, it’s not something that’s bandied about. Vadim is the only one who’s ever actually spoken to him on the topic, and briefly at that.

Charlie shakes his head. “I don’t really understand it, but back to before, no. If John doesn’t drive you completely nuts, more power to you.

“I just wanted to ask you to be careful, that’s all. He’s a shit and he acts tough but I don’t want him to get hurt. He gets into enough scrapes on his own, he doesn’t need emotional damage to go along with it, you know?”

“Understood,” Nick says. And it is, very well.

“But, now that we’ve talked, I also want to say to be careful with yourself. I don’t know what all’s between you, but if you actually care beyond…” He makes a face and continues in a quiet mutter. _“If._ Just know that he’s temperamental. And flighty. He’s not one to be pinned down is all I mean.”

“I appreciate the heads up. Really.”

“Not a problem. And that’s all I had.”

Nick nods, trying to process all of this and still riding the wave of gratefulness that this didn’t turn into an angry man going on the attack to defend his brother’s honor. Nick huffs at the imagined look on John’s face if that extent of chivalrous idiocy ever came to pass on his behalf. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t mention this run-in to him.”

 _“I_ wouldn’t. You can if you think you need to but it’s not going to do anything except put him in a bad mood with you and then he’s going to get passive aggressive with me until I end up slamming his fingers in my bedroom door. I know it, it’s what always happens when I get in his business. But do what you want, it’s up to you.”

“Alright.” Nick places his fork down into his empty bowl and pushes it across the counter for Takahashi to pick up whenever he ambles back around. He feels relieved. Glad the shadow-become-brother didn’t turn out to be… well, any number of unpleasant things. Ridiculously overbearing. Loud and angry or loud and revolted. Ready with ultimatums or intimidation. Too many awkward questions. Coulda been bad.

But he’s fine. Easy to talk to, a little stiff maybe, but a nice guy and a pretty decent brother. Nick approves. But he’s still just a little curious about the suit…

“John never mentioned what you do,” Nick says, nodding down at Charlie’s clothes.

“No, he wouldn’t.” Charlie grins, and Nick can see just a shadow of his brother in it. “He thinks it’s just unbearably uncool now that he’s older. I work at the mayor’s office. Admin assistant. I take dictation, write letters, lots of scheduling and filing.” He snorts a laugh. “Not very fun or exciting, I guess, like _that’s_ what’s important, but I like it and I’m needed. They’d be lost without me.

“And it’s time to head back, I think. I took a longer lunch than usual today and I’ve got a lot of backlog to sort through.”

“Well,” Nick says, holding his hand out. “It was an unusual first meeting, but it’s good to know you, Charlie.”

“Likewise Mr. Valentine.” He turns in his seat and accepts the shake. Charlie’s got big, soft hands and a smudge of purple ditto ink on the back of his right. He smiles again, kind of lop-sided. “Unless you’re secretly a serial killer I’d say you’re stellar.”

“Oh, no, haven’t done that in years,” Nick says and Charlie laughs politely. Yeah, he’s a good sort.

Nick looks up at him as Charlie stands. He chooses his tone of voice carefully so he doesn’t have to explain; either what he means or that this is a question he really needs an answer to. “How’d you know?”

Charlie shrugs and brushes off his waistcoat, pats his hat back down over his forehead. “He’s my brother, I know how his tastes run, and really, he’s just got this god awful habit of always getting what he wants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here at all- new readers, returners, commenters, lurkers, users, guests -thank you so much for ... it seems kind of puffed-up to say 'going on this journey with me' but this thing's getting long af and there's still a lot to go. So thanks. I'm glad we're here together.


	20. Feel Like We've Been Here Before

_February 5, 2281  10:00 PM_

 

From his corner perch up at the bar, Nick can see most of the rest of the Dugout. Herds of people milling around under a blue-grey layer of smoke and noise, Earl popping around and plucking empty glasses off tables and making eyes at the ladies he comes across (all of them; indiscriminately lecherous, Earl is), Kyle and Riley over by the couches being wowed by a patented Highly-Unlikely Hawthorne Story. Nick has no illusions that the guy’s seen and done plenty of crazy things, but sometimes it’s just too damned obvious when he’s dressing up a retelling. Nick’s pretty certain one guy can’t take down three full-grown deathclaws with a shitty pistol, a handful of thumbtacks, and one frag mine, no matter how well-placed.

Piper’s been in, to a mixed reaction. Half the people who saw her wanted to thank her or buy her a drink and she’d barely made it up to the bar with her hat still on her head. The other half’d had some ugly words and uglier looks, but nothing out of control or worth starting anything over for once.

And John’s floating around somewhere in here. He’d seen him not ten minutes ago drifting around the edge of the middling-sized crowd filling the floor and then diving into its depths. Watched him gracefully twist away from an elbow accidentally flying his way, trail his hand over a row of anonymous shoulders, glance around and join up with whoever’d called to him. Then Nick lost him again. Which was good because it was getting pretty embarrassing how much he was staring once he’d found him.

Though it’s hard to feel _too_ guilty about. Nick’s dead sure he’s not the only sucker in history who can’t keep his eyes off John McDonough. Can’t be; he’s too damned magnetic.

Nick turns back to the spotty conversation going on at his side. Jeez, he doesn’t need to jump on the poor kid every time he’s in viewing distance.

Much as he’d like to.

For god’s sakes, he’s not _pining._

He’s just having a drink, unwinding from a day of playing lookout, and watching Vadim try to do some fancy move with a rum bottle that almost ends up painting the back bar in shattered glass and wasted booze - saved at the last second by Yefim’s quick reflexes which gets some drunk applause from a few of the more inebriated folks bellied up to the bar. Vadim bows and gestures grandly at his scowling brother like it was all on purpose.

Maybe twenty minutes after that, Nick’s another drink in and turned around again and looking out at the rest of the room. Hawthorne’d moved on and likewise for Piper and the rest of the room mostly just blended back into the sea of faces and leather armor and padded jackets.

Except there. The one face he was supposed to stop looking for.

But sheesh, who’s keeping track, really.

And this time John spots him right back and holds Nick’s eye from his post all the way across the room. There’s a shifting line of sight between them, moving and returning with the flow of the crowd. When they have a clear view again Nick raises his glass to cheek level and tips it. John grins and raises his own bottle in answer, but instead of sipping from it, he sucks a small, colorful object from his fingers and swallows it with a wink. Another crazy night for the kid.

John glances away for a moment, drawn off to summon up a smile at something being said to him by a figure leaning on his shoulder. Gives his response and then he finds Nick again.

He jerks his head back toward the entrance and raises his eyebrows in question. _Wanna get out of here?_

Nick lifts his own mostly-full drink again and flicks his eyes down at it. _I just started on this._

John thins his lips and twirls the fingers of his free hand. _Then hurry the fuck up and drink it._

Nick smiles blandly and takes a very deliberately slow drink. Squints his eyes after. _I’m trying to goddamn enjoy it, kiddo._

Slack mouth and long roll of the eyes. _Oh, come_ on.

Then Nick stills as John says a few words to his small crowd and peels away, walking right at him. He smiles benignly and shifts his gaze past Nick as he approaches. Seconds later and he’s up on his toes over Nick to put a few caps down on the bar and hollering over the noise for whatever’s the cheapest vodka Yefim’s got. John’s hand is on Nick’s back for balance, hip rubbing up against his side, and his jacket’s open and all Nick can smell in those few seconds is John, warm and smoky.

It’s a good maneuver. It feels practiced (perhaps filed under its own name like The Way-Too-Close Bar Shimmy or When Is a Hug Not a Hug, When It’s a Drink Request), like he’s tested the exact place to lay his hand (enticing but not too bold), _just_ how far to lean in and at what artful angle to tilt to show off his neck and that’s why it’s extra aggravating that it’s working.

Perfectly.

God damn him.

“Hello,” Nick deadpans, probably sounding just like anyone else miffed at the complete disregard of personal space.

“Oh, heya, detective!” John says, looking down all innocent and surprised like he’s only just realized he’s almost crawling over someone. Ass. “Good to see you, ‘scuse me.”

He reaches in and grabs one of his purchased shots and knocks it back. Slides down further into Nick’s space to get the other and gently squeezes his shoulder as he drops his voice to a murmur. “I think you wanna finish that up,” he says, nodding at Nick’s glass. “I’m goin’ stir crazy in here and I wouldn’t mind workin’ out my frustrations with my mouth on your dick.”

There’s no way anyone else could overhear him, but Nick nearly chokes anyway.

“Is that…” He coughs and feels his eye about to start watering. “That right? Weren’t you… It looked like you had a thing goin’ on over there.”

“Nah, thing’s winding down and I’m… mm, lookin’ for something a little harder.” John grins. “You up for it?”

It’s unbelievably difficult not to bury his face in his hands and groan. “Jesus Christ, your lines need some serious work,” Nick mutters. John snorts and peers into his second shot glass. “And don’t you usually go for the feint _before_ the punch?”

John waves that off. “Eh. Doesn’t matter. I don’t need to break out the good material; you’re gonna say yes anyway, ain’tcha?”

“You―” Nick frowns and takes a long drink, draining about half the thing in one go. No use playing coy about it; he is so incredibly up for it. And here he is, Nick Valentine: Picked up in a Bar with the Greatest of Ease. “Yeah, fine. You got me.”

“Do I,” John says, eyes crinkling with a smile and tongue running over alcohol-damp lips. “That’s good.” He stacks the little cups on the bar top with a loud clink and when he goes to step away his fingertips drag very much on purpose over the back of Nick’s neck. And as John is very well-aware it will, the touch makes Nick bite down on a hot shiver. _Ass._ “See y’at your place then? Try not to keep a guy waiting.”

Contrary to prior insinuations Nick does not, in fact, keep him waiting.

 

_February 5, 2281  10:50 PM_

 

The lights are on when Nick swings his door open, a gold wedge of it fanning out into the alleyway. Nick steps into the glow and the still air of the office and pushes the door shut with his heel. He rarely gets the time or the distance to anticipate this kind of thing; so far it feels more along the lines of hey, haven’t seen you in a week, man, need some help with your belt? But the walk over was plenty enough to think on it and drive up what feels like a low hum running through him now. Warm and wired and like he could run at his full, flat-out speed for an hour if he was asked to.

John’s sitting on the extra desk again, shoulders tipped back and propped up on his palms with his legs spread wide open, one foot clunking off the metal backing. His jacket’s on the floor and his everything else says come here, so Nick does. Walks right up and stands with the fronts of his thighs touching the desk edge and John’s knees pressing inward to hold him there.

Smiling, he looks up through his eyelashes and his wild cloud of hair and Nick’s surprised to see just how dark his eyes are, even under the bright office lights. Pupils open and deep, unnaturally so.

“Jeez, kid.” Nick leans down over the desk and stretches out a hand to touch John’s chin, half to turn him to the side to get a better look and half just to touch his face. It’s a stupid angle for kissing someone, too much of a stoop to make but he does it anyway and smiles into the welcoming hum he gets back. “That the mentats or are you just happy to see me?”

When Nick pulls away, John laughs and follows him up, sweeping his legs onto the desktop to kneel on it. The desk gives him three or four inches over Nick and he grins down at him, slowly blinking his weirdly dark eyes and fluttering his lashes. He briefly palms over himself, where he’s partly at attention already. “Can’t be both?”

“Guess it can,” Nick says as he pushes in closer. John runs a hand through Nick’s hair and tosses his hat to fall where it may, coming back to finger through the goop Nick’d combed into his hair earlier and muss it soft again. “What’s the occasion?”

Nick settles his hands on John's hips as their lips meet again and he pets over his sharp corners and long lines. His skin is warm and soft as silk and his mouth tastes like beer and the cold, airy rush of menthol.

“No occasion. I’m _always_ happy to see _you,_ handsome.” John slips Nick’s tie loose, and unbuttons the top of his shirt, bending down to let his lips and nose brush against the skin of his neck as he does it. Despite what he says, Nick wonders if John’s quite as happy as Nick is to be the target of this kind of smiling, grabby attention. Doesn’t seem possible. “And I like ‘em with my drinks sometimes. It’s probably liquefying my liver as we speak but who cares, that’s why we have two, right.”

“John...”

Now there’s teeth on his skin as well as John laughs, forehead on his shoulder and mouth over his collarbones and the top of his chest. One hand firm on Nick’s jaw and the other hooked lightly into the open vee of his shirt. “Kidding. Mentats don’t do anything bad, just offset the stupidity a little. There’re so many worse combos out there.”

“‘A little’, huh.”

“Yes, Nick, _a little._ I didn’t say I’m out here fuckin’... composing Pythagoras or nothin’.”

Nick snorts and palms over John’s ass, grabbing him and pulling him up against Nick’s front. He runs his fingers up the center of him, firm and deliberate and John gasps into Nick’s shirt, breath hot and a chuckle in his voice when he speaks again. Nick squeezes them tighter, inching John’s knees along the desk and thinks how he’ll never get tired of hearing those rare flashes of reaction that aren’t completely self-assured and sleekly confident; the sharp breaths and startled groans.

“Mm, yeah,” John breathes between kissing his neck and trying to get Nick to shrug out of his coat already. A task made more difficult when Nick won’t stop sliding his hands over John’s backside, tracing his curves and making him grind hard over Nick’s hip. “What about you, baby love? What’re you doin’ drinking all of the Dugout’s Glenlivet?”

“Trying to enjoy this little quiet period I’m having,” Nick says. He muses for a second on exactly how John knew what he was drinking. Good guess, or maybe Nick wasn’t the only one doing an inordinate amount of staring. “It’s not gonna last long.”

“Really?”

Nick shrugs. “Feels like there’s something big on its way. Calm before the storm kinda thing.”

“Bigger than those kids being whisked away by the Wicked Bitch of the Institute?”

“Maybe so. Yeah. I dunno, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m starting to get that you’re-about-to-get-a-freight-load-of-trouble-dumped-in-your-lap feeling."

“Well, if you need a trigger-happy stud to come to your rescue your ass when shit gets real…”

“Wouldn’t call anyone else.”

“Damn right. Now.” John plucks Nick’s hand away and eyes him as he raises his fingers to his lips. “These.” He nips him once, teeth closing over the pad of Nick’s index and then it’s all tongue, hot and wet and slippery. Nick watches his fingers disappear into John’s mouth, feeling the silky slide of tongue and lips around him and breathes out harshly at how far back he takes them. At John’s eyes on his as he does it and the way his mouth stretches around him.

It’s not too far of a reach to assume that John knows exactly what he’s thinking about; you can’t get a whole lot more explicitly suggestive than sucking someone’s fingers into the back of your mouth while your eyes smoulder and a pretty flush of arousal crawls up your neck. What he maybe doesn’t know is how _often_ Nick’s thought of that with his hand on himself on a late night or unusually solid morning. Looking at him now and feeling John’s tongue slip over and between his fingers sets Nick’s heart thundering and a rush of heat flooding through his body. He groans low in his throat and closes his eyes.

Jesus, the kid can play him like a two cap harmonica. It might be sad if he didn’t enjoy it so much.

John lets him go and draws away, saliva trailing out over his lip and clinging to his chin. His hands are on his belt and the zip’s down and he’s dragging Nick’s hand down to his hip. “In me,” he says, sucking his wet lower lip back through his teeth and already going for Nick’s pants.

Nick obliges. He pushes down the back of John’s jeans with both hands, the left gripping and pulling him wide and the slick fingers of the right sliding right up against his hole. John lays his arms out straight across Nick’s shoulders with his cheek up against Nick’s temple so it’s easy to hear how his breath stops and restarts when Nick pushes one into him, slow and easy. The low _ahhnn_ he lets out when Nick’s in him as far as the angle allows and he starts the soft glide out.

John sighs and wedges an arm back in between them after a moment or two, grabs them both in one hand and moves as best he can when space allows and probably makes a gross mess of both their shirts. They’re hip to hip and chest to chest and shifting together in a lewd, sticky dance.

“Both,” is what John murmurs just above Nick’s ear in a sweaty rush. He sways back just enough to sink Nick’s finger a little deeper. “C’mon, I wanna really feel it.”

And that… the suggestion and breathlessness in his voice, it sets off a fire in Nick’s chest. Spreading down to jolt him into John’s moving hand and then up to set his thoughts and vision even further ablaze with the things John’s asked for before, things Nick’s imagined but hasn’t let himself give into yet. Afraid to for reasons unknown. For how momentous it seems, maybe. Not sacred, not _that_ serious, but weighty. Of import.

“Kid,” Nick says, his face laid up against John’s hair and both hands still working carefully over and into his ass with soft pushes. “You wanna take this upstairs instead?”

“Mm? What, to your _bedroom?”_ John whispers back, sounding thoroughly distracted and sarcastic as a result.

“Yes, smartass, to my bedroom.” Nick slips his finger free and rubs it and his index over the small, pulsing ring of muscle. Presses inward just enough for it to start to give, then pulls away again. “If you’d like to keep going with this.”

“Oh.” Then _oh_ again, almost silent and Nick can feel the quivery outpour of new energy coming off him. “Fuck, okay. There or right here, or on the floor, or up against the fuckin’ wall; I’m not picky.”

Hell. He’s nearly riled up enough to agree. To see how long Nick can hold him up by his thighs with his back thumping against the wall or how many shoves against the desk it might take for John to come away with lines of staggered bruises across his hips…

But he’d rather do this right and in a real bed. If only for his own sense of propriety’s sake. It just seems in poor taste not to.

Nick shakes his head and runs a circle of fingers around the base of his dick for a brief, tight squeeze before hitching his pants back up. He leans forward and tilts his face up to kiss the corner of John’s mouth. “Upstairs. Get.”


	21. But Not Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao, I am so sorry about the split (my apologies to you and your family members); I hope this makes up for the fat blue-balling. Got some silliness in here, sex ain’t too shabby, wtf else u want. Angst? Mushy stuff!? I got that too! And sorry about the wait, this was hard to choreograph and pace and I had to make sure I got the very end correct enough to be sort of happy with.
> 
> Warning for panic attacks, I guess. I don’t know if it really _needs_ it but better safe than sorry?

_February 5, 2281 11:15 PM_

 

It occurs to Nick minutes later, still grinning from the rush up as they strip each other down in the hazy light of his bedside lamp that they’ve never actually been fully naked together. Came real close a couple times, one of them with just a crinkled-up shirt still on or all the details out in the open but still technically clothed in something, but they’d never actually clinched it ‘til now. Too distant for it at first, then later either too busy or too rushed or too drunk to think of it. It also occurs to him just how familiar this is getting, pulling the kid’s shirt off for him and watching him duck his head to scramble his belt off and kick his boots to the side.

“God. You…”

John’s got a look on his face again, one of the many predatory ones he has in his vast repertoire. His eyes roam over Nick’s legs, up over his cock and stocky hips, the wide chest, the thick, if not really defined muscle he’s still got on his arms. Hunger, is what it looks like. Nick can’t say he hasn’t got the same look on his own face, really.

“...look like a fucking dream.”

And then John’s lips are on his again, sucking the breath out of him and dragging him forward to tumble Nick into bed on top of him. The heat in his body never left, not even the cool air on Nick’s bare skin put a damper on it, but now it’s doubling down as he kneels suspended over John. The kid’s legs are sprawled open and his arms are tossed up over his head, eyes hooded and watching Nick’s every little move.

“Man, I don’t think I have to tell you, I’ve thought about this more’n a few times.” His posture’s the picture of relaxation and nonchalance, but the way John’s hips twitch and the tips of his fingers curl in betray him. His feet trace up the backs of Nick’s calves and hook around his bent knees to nudge him forward.

Their lips meet again and Nick smiles crookedly. “I feel like you’ve built this up so much you’re gonna be disappointed by the real thing,” he says, nosing over John’s cheek and up into the hair curling at his temple.

John giggles at that. He brings his hands down the sides of Nick’s face, stroking down over his jaw, his neck, to grip onto his shoulders and dig appreciatively into their bulk while his eyes angle down between them. “Naw, never.” He licks his lips. “Well. Where’d you throw my pants? Check my pockets real quick, would you? Let’s get this show on the road.”

Nick finds them near the stair landing and makes a guess that it’s not the bent hairpins, rubber bands, metal washers, or handful of linty red pills he’s after. The left front gives up a half-empty plastic tube of clear oil and Nick pulls it out, tipping it side to side in the light. “I want to be surprised,” he remarks to it, “but I am very much n―”

His declaration stutters to a halt when he turns back to face the bed. John’s rolled himself over onto his stomach, head cradled sideways in a big armful of sheets, ass up and the fingers of one hand shifting between pulling his cheeks apart and rubbing over his hole. Ready and presenting himself and a grin blooming at the poleaxed look on Nick’s face.

“Y’got it?” he says, lazily pushing one fingertip into himself as he notices Nick looking then patting the back of a pale thigh. “Then get up here and get on this.”

Nick kneels behind him, knees sinking into the mattress as he settles between John’s legs, nerves snapping and exhilarated all over again. His hands circle around John’s slowly shifting hips, sliding up to his waist and resting his dick overtop where it’s going to go in a minute. His breath is running away from him fast.

And here’s another first, he realizes. First time naked, and first time getting a good, up-close look at John’s bare back. As he looks, Nick flips the cap on the lube and drips some over his fingers, light and vaguely sweet-smelling, and puts his hand back over the swell of John’s ass. He moves over and down and sinks back into him, easy easy so he slides out and goes back in with three. John’s eyes flutter closed and he breathes out hard.

Nick’s seen the edges of his tattoo before, tendrils snaking over John’s neck and shoulder, touched and even kissed the inky skin, but here’s the rest of it in its entirety. And he can’t really tell what the hell it is, he realizes. It’s beautifully made, lines and rings and shading twining together and apart with a clear sense of shape and rhythm, but the thing as a whole is chaos and doesn’t make an awful lot of sense.

Nerves, probably, is what’s making him stick and delay. Trying to keep everything at a sedate pace to avoid the stumbles.

Nick runs his left hand over the edge of curving black and grey, leaving a smear of oil up the nape of the kid’s neck and down his top two or three bumps of spine. “What is this?”

An eye slits open. “It’s a called a ‘tattoo’, Nick, lots of people have them.”

“You…” Nick sighs and looks at the wall in disgust. “Jackass.”

John laughs, low and throaty and he closes his eye again. “How ‘bout I tell you later. But here, one piece of advice for you.” Now his lips tug up in a distant smile as he shifts backwards onto Nick’s hand, cramming him in all the way to the webs of his fingers and getting a strangled groan out of Nick. “Never get one, okay? That’s how it starts. Tattoo needle first, then you get an ear pierced,” he reaches up and flicks his earlobe with a jingle, “and you start thinkin’ ‘Hey, that wasn’t so bad, maybe I’d like more foreign objects to penetrate me,’ and then it’s just non-stop cocks after that.”

There’s a second of silence and then they both burst out laughing; Nick at John’s ridiculousness even at a time like this and John at the horribly loud snort Nick just let out. Nick slips his fingers free and hangs his head over John’s back; John snickers where he is, still buried in the sheets.

“Alright, c’mon now. I expected slow but I got needs here,” John says, eyes amused but well on their way to dark and demanding. He crooks a finger at Nick and Nick eases down over him, heated bodies pressed tight together chest to back with his very hard and very wet dick sliding over John’s skin. John twists (freakishly flexible, and doesn’t that conjure some thoughts) and reaches back to run his hand over Nick’s jawline, his nails scraping. He yanks them into a kiss, suddenly sloppy and hard. “If you’re not inside me in the next minute,” he says. “I’m gettin’ on top and I ain’t gonna be so nice about it.”

Nick blows a breath out that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a needy pant; he distinctly feels himself pulse hard against John’s back. “Yes, sir.”

John pats his cheek and turns back around, rearing up onto his forearms and knees and getting a hand underneath himself.

Nick slicks himself up and drags his fingers over John again, touching and worrying and thrilled, really, if he stops thinking about it. He slides his cock up between John’s cheeks, the tip catching against his wet and slightly open hole. And as he does it, wondering if John realizes or would even care if he did about the symbolism here: John letting his body be changed and stretched, even this small part of him, just to accommodate Nick. A sacrifice so they can fit together more easily. Let Nick closer. Frightening.

“Just... tell me if I’m not doing something right,” Nick mutters in some kind of last ditch effort to not screw this up too badly.

John wiggles his perky ass up against Nick and says nothing.

“‘Kay then,” Nick breathes.

A thumb on himself and the other hand pressed steady over the dimples at the small of John’s back are his guides as Nick starts to push in. It takes everything in him not to just whine aloud watching himself sink into John’s body opening up for him, the oily sheen of the lube smoothing the way. He knows that slow is the way to do this, but it’s a colossal feat to keep himself in check and stay his hips from lurching forward into this new heat and suffocating pressure. His hands grip down hard onto John’s hips (to keep him still? to keep himself still?) and Nick watches the skin bunch up pink under his clutching fingers. He’s only about halfway in.

“Oh, fuck. Yep,” John whispers with a cough, voice quiet enough to maybe just be for his own benefit. He’s tilting his hips up and trying to relax around Nick, he can feel it. “That’s a lotta dick.”

And Nick laughs again, near-silent and strained for just as long as it takes to pause, ease out a bit, then complete the tight slide in. They both groan as Nick works in and pushes up flush against John’s ass and the backs of his thighs, John cursing as gaudily as he usually does and Nick clenching his teeth so he doesn’t try to match him. It feels like a punch in the gut, seating himself inside John. He waits, holding himself perfectly still and feels the way they’re both throbbing out of sync and watches the slow shift of muscle across the kid’s back as he breathes and flexes.

“Yeah. Alright,” John says, raspy and low. He tips his shoulders down and pulls forward and Nick lets out a(n extremely manly) whimper as he watches himself slowly slide free, feels the slick drag of it. “Do it just like that.” And then John pushes back, arching his spine in a soft wave and snugging back up against Nick’s hips, tight and full of him. He turns and looks at Nick, one lust-darkened eye on him and his lips wet and slack but still with a hint of a smirk on them. “So I feel every fucking inch of it.”

And then there’s nothing but the hot slide of flesh into flesh and panted breathing and the muted breaths and groans coming from each of them. The pace Nick sets is slow but hard; a good compromise, he thinks, between what he wants right now and what he guesses John is after. He carefully watches and listens and feels for what makes John gasp and shake and grab at him and does it more. Does it better. Nick rolls his hips and feels his knees creak and watches the shimmer of sweat form at John’s hairline and over his back, the slight jiggle of his ass on each connection and the tight angle of his arms braced against the bed. He feels John bend and arch and push back onto him and hears him laugh when Nick hits him deep and it’s divine to be inside him. With him.

God, he never wants to stop touching him.

Nick pulls his hands down John’s shoulder blades, over his ribs and sweeps them onto his hips and the tops of his thighs; holding him hard and swaying into him harder, forcing tiny noises out of the kid every time their bodies meet. John’s body tenses and relaxes, the muscles thickening up under Nick’s hands and he can see John stroking himself faster.

“Keep going, okay. Keep fucking going,” John says, panting and gripping the pillow under him like he wants to rip it apart. “Don’t… _stop.”_ And his last word drags out into moans and harsh, dragging breaths and the muscles of his ass are pulsing and sucking Nick in and Nick wouldn’t stop for anything. John’s voice is just one long utterance of _‘Oh, fuck’_ and the entire time Nick can feel him coming around his cock in long, rippling clenches until he’s wrung out with his head hanging down between his shoulders and Nick is just barely pushing into him, slow and easy.

He stops when John shivers and gives him a strained ‘okay’. Smiles when he collapses forward, almost floating down.

“Hey,” Nick says. He runs a palm down John’s damp back, fingers tracing the dip of his spine.

John makes a deeply satisfied sort of noise and presses back into Nick’s hand.

Nick is still hard (and sticky) as hell and very much wants to put the kid’s hinted-at refractory period to the test if he’ll oblige. He brushes some of John’s hair out of his face and leans down to catch his ear in his teeth. Kisses the hot, sweaty skin and damp curls right behind it; the murky smell of the Dugout still on him, body heat and soap underneath that.

“Think you can go again or should I take care of this?” Nick murmurs.

John laughs and he flails a hand out to pat against Nick’s leg. He’s still out of breath and swallows hard before he speaks. “Gimme like… a minute and fffuck yeah I can.”

Nick rolls down onto his side next to John with a thump, making the boxspring creak and driving a short breath out of the both of them. He slides a hand over himself, lazily touching and it’ll keep him going though it’s not nearly as nice as the way the kid was just going to pieces around him. Not many things are, if he’s honest right now. His fingers shift over his cock, skidding over slowly drying lube and he watches John’s heaving back even out again as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and twists his hips, stretching and resettling.

True to his word, after a very short wait John heaves a big sigh and reaches under himself and makes an obvious sort of motion with his arm.

“Mmhm, I think we’re back.” John’s ass and legs flex down into the bed and his grip a few times. “Yeah, there we go,” he groans. “Y’ready for round two?”

“I’ve _been_ ready, kid.” Nick grins at the back of John’s head. “I’m still waiting on round one. _You’re_ the hold up here.” He pokes a finger into the center of one very round, and very nice asscheek. John squeaks and jerks away.

 _“I’m_ the hold up? Pff. You wish you could still fuck like this.” He shoots a grin over his shoulder. “Kiss my aaassssss, Nickyyy.”

“Next time, maybe I will,” Nick says as he lunges and tugs John over onto his back. John fights it, shoving with his arms and kicking completely unconvincingly as his eyes flare wide with delight and he crows out laughter and what sounds like ‘Oh, _really!’_ as he swings around.

“Maybe, I said,” Nick says into his temple as he wrestles John down and rolls in close with a heavy leg slung over both of his. “If you’re good.” _Do anything you want, maybe;_ he adds silently. _Just need the time to get used to things._

“Baby, I am _always_ good,” John purrs, then laughs at the scoff that gets from Nick. Winner of the wildest lie competition right here.

John looks down at how they’re almost front to front. “Oh. Like this now, huh?” he says, and his voice flips right around from sultry to fake-accusatory, still with a grin and a high flush of exertion on his cheeks. “You just wanna look at all the goofy faces I make when I’m getting a dick up my ass, don’t you.”

“Of course I do,” Nick says with his eyebrows raised. _Jesus, he’s adorable._ It’s really damn difficult to think of the last time sex was so fun. Or felt so amazingly good. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I’d love to see your goofy faces.”

John makes one right then, but he doesn’t resist when Nick climbs over his leg to settle between them. Or when he just barely sets his hands to John’s knees and they fall wide for him. Or the overly-sweaty kiss Nick presses them into, John murmuring ‘you sap’ into his lips. Or when Nick murmurs back, ‘you like it’ with his hand dug deep into John’s hair.

It’s quick work to get himself and John re-slicked, at least after fumbling the tube of oil out from under a pile of sheet and elbows. And getting them turned around this way was a really fantastic decision; to get to see John’s lips part and feel the bite of his nails when Nick lines himself up again and rubs against him. To see his eyes close in reverence and teeth bite down as Nick slides back in, quicker and forceful enough to push John up the bed an inch. The next thrusts go much the same way and Nick watches and feels the sparse flesh of John’s chest shake with them, watches his hair bounce back and then down over his forehead, and John can’t stop making these soft little _ah ah ah_ noises each time Nick drives home which is just goddamn captivating.

“Do _you_ like this?” John asks then, breathiness tearing the corners off his words. He has a teasing smile on his face but he’s quiet and it doesn’t exactly sound like the usual rhetorical filth he blankets himself with. Nick just thinks, _Why on earth do you sound so unsure? Don’t you know?_

“It’s not bad,” he says, out of breath himself and trying to keep the tease going but unable to hide the no doubt very revealing smile on his face. _Hot and_ tight _and devastatingly good,_ he thinks. “Could get used to it.” He leans down, rocking up into him like this and John sucking in a gasp at the change in angle, and kisses him, soft and sweet layered on top of the mounting need he’s feeling. “Can’t think of a single other thing I’d rather be doing, really.”

John’s hands tighten around his triceps, almost dragging at him and Nick can’t tell what the noise he makes is supposed to be. Pain, he might guess if it weren’t for the look on his face. If this is what the kid thinks constitutes ‘goofy’, Nick doesn’t know what to tell him.

“Yeah? Tell me you want to fuck me, then. I wanna hear you say it.”

“I do," Nick answers right against his lips. "I want to fuck you.” He hears John’s breath hitch and sees a grin spread wide across his face. They’re eyelash to eyelash and practically breathing each other; smoke and desire and honesty. Not much of that last one, but it _is_ there. Right here. Easy. “I want you,” he whispers. He drops that last tiny bit of distance and presses their mouths together again like a confirmation and John melts into it, clutching and uncurbed.

Nick shifts up to John’s cheek and kisses him there, his temple, his ear, and John’s laugh spills out, his eyebrows high but looking very gratified. “God, Nick. Watch your fucking language, please.”

Nick snorts and wraps a hand around John’s cock which effectively shuts him up and thinks that, while he hasn’t had the willpower to slow it down on hardly anything else, he’s honestly glad he waited for this. Glad there’s some kind of connection here that’s more than just where their bodies intersect. Glad that they’re at a point with each other where they can laugh and say stupid shit during and actually _care_ and not have to deal with that stumbling, prickly dance of having sex with someone you barely know. Which isn’t the worst thing in the world, but this is so much nicer.

And even that aside, as he always has been, John is just so good at his half.

His hands are everywhere. Feeling up Nick’s arms as he leans down over John, tracing over the trembling muscles and squeezing in like little reassurances; smoothing down his waist and hips and reaching to playfully grab his ass; running down his chest and pinching him just hard enough to be interesting but not painful; hooking around the back of his neck and pulling Nick down to kiss him, deep and urgent.

His body is all yearning, fluid movement, giving way where Nick pushes then rising to meet him again each time. Like what he gets will never be enough if he can’t match it.

His eyes are dark with lust, lancing right through Nick; shifting anywhere from furiously intent to furiously happy when they lock gazes.

His mouth is wet and running endless with words. Telling Nick that he’s so good, to fuck him harder, oh my god right there, just fuck me holy shit Nick _please._

Nick leans forward with his hair hanging in his eyes and looks down at John, who’s moaning and digging his teeth into an already bite-swollen lip when he’s not busy gasping for air. Puts a hand over his chest, crushing down over his collarbone and he’s so warm and pliantly silky everywhere Nick touches him, and Jesus Christ―

“John,” Nick gasps.

John draws his legs up higher, rubs his ankles down Nick’s flank, and folds his feet over Nick’s ass to encourage him to rock even further in. Bracing himself there, he shifts his hips up to eke out even more slick, teasing movement at just the right angle. “You close? You feel like it.”

Nick nods. Whispers, “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” John repeats, his voice shuddery and even quieter than Nick’s, if possible. “Me too. You wanna come in me?” His hands come up to hold Nick’s head still. To make him look into those fierce, heavy-lidded eyes as Nick’s stomach twists and he helplessly nods again and John clenches his thighs and rolls his body to help Nick impale him even deeper. His voice is almost a growl with how low and hoarse it is. “Do it.”

Nick gasps and stiffens―

“Do it. Fucking _do it.”_

―and pushes in deep; deep as he can into that slippery heat and lets himself go with a strangled cry and a vicious squeeze of his hand. He feels like he’s falling, on fire, a meteor burning and crashing and the only thing keeping him anchored is his hand on the kid’s chest and the kid’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist. It feels so goddamn good.

John’s heels continue to pull him in with rhythmic little nudges as he clenches his teeth and lets Nick carry him into his own moaning, screamy release. He feels John tighten and surge around his cock again, chases after the kid’s writhing hips and keeps up the rhythm for as long as he can. Come spatters up John’s stomach, a few drops landing almost at his throat and he closes his eyes and lets Nick kiss him through it. He gets enough of himself back to actually respond at the end, lips moving weakly and hands pushing roughly through Nick’s hair.

Nick pulls out only when he can’t excuse away staying in him anymore. He can’t resist one curious touch to John’s pink and stretched out hole; he runs the pad of a fingertip over it and feels it clench. John blows a breath through his nose and his lips twist up in an amused grimace.

“What? Again?” He giggles at the alarmed look on Nick’s face. And then again and louder when he wraps a hand around Nick’s and pulls his fingers back inside him, into the hot, slick wet of Nick’s spend. The undeniable proof of what they just did. “Three’s a little funny right in a row but I’d be willing to make the attempt, if you want.”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Nick says, pressing his fingers in and up and making John gasp and rubbing his thumb over the delicate skin above but shaking his head no.

“Ridiculous...ly hot. I know. Thanks, man.”

“Any time at all.”

Nick debates the unappealing thought of just settling back into bed dirty and naked versus hunting down a rag and his pajamas which entails touching the cold, wooden floor with his bare feet. The nudity wins out, at least for now, and he settles down into the sheets side by side with John, sticky and oily with lube and sweat. Heartbeats slow and air cools between them until John starts fidgeting and Nick turns his head toward him. Usually about now John’ll be pulling his shorts back on or pinching or tugging at Nick or making his excuses for somewhere he’s gotta be, but he’s not got around to any of that yet.

“They expecting you at home?” Nick asks.

“No,” John says after a slight pause. “Not tonight.”

“Okay, that’s―” _good. Guards are out on patrol anyway, why don't you stick around?_ is what he means to finish with, but John’s already squirming up in a small flurry of legs and sheets.

“I should clean up, I think.”

Nick can only see the edge of John's jaw and the tip of his nose from where he's laying but it looks like he's smiling about something. The corner of his mouth is drawn back at least. Grimacing maybe, he’s got a worse mess than Nick does to deal with.

“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Nick says, running an exploratory hand over himself (ew) and using the other to point at the rickety bathroom door set in the wall. “Right there. The tap sticks, just shove it if you need to.”

“Alright.”

John sounds tired. No surprise there, really.

 

_February 6, 2281 12:35 AM_

 

Nick does a listless but passable job wiping himself down and sets to picking up their violently discarded clothes while the water runs in the other room. Finds a hanger for his shirt and a hook for his coat, pants folded in half and draped over the chair, same for John’s jeans and tee and his jacket (with an all new small-caliber bullet hole near the hem, saints preserve us). He even locates the now emptier tube of oil underneath one of his socks and returns it to John’s pocket.

A quick trip downstairs to shut off all the appliances left forgotten thanks to the mad dash upstairs and then Nick’s back up into bed, pulling on a pair of sweats and snapping the bedside lamp off on the way. He grabs a pillow and wedges it under his head, stares up at the ceiling until he slowly realizes the water’s been off for a long time and there’s no noise at all coming from the bathroom. Another minute or two crawls by before the silence starts to feel suffocating and spooky and it chases him up and across the room. No light coming from under the door either.

“John?”

He doesn’t knock on the door, not yet. He hears a long, drawn out breath on the other side. The squeak of wet skin on the sink.

“Yeah.”

John’s voice sends an unexpected chill through him. A far pace from tired now; it sounds dead.

Frowning, he sets his tented fingers on the door jamb. “Kid, you okay? Can I come in?”

Another long breath. “I guess?”

He’s standing over the sink in the dark, head bowed in front of the small rectangle of mirror Nick has tacked to the wall, hands braced on the porcelain and still naked. There’s a damp washcloth abandoned on the floor, but other than that the room looks as it always does. Nick stretches a hand out to touch a shoulder, ask him what’s wrong, if he’s sick maybe and why’s the light out but stops when John speaks again. The sound of his voice is slightly terrifying in how neutral it is and the odd turn of pose and surroundings don’t do much to assuage that.

“Nick.”

Again, Nick’s imagination starts running wild and he hopes for just a second that John won’t turn around. He’s so sure that if he does, if he turns away from the wall, there’ll be nothing there. Just some cold, black, yawning void in the shape of a person.

“Yeah,” Nick says, holding down a shudder. “What’s… you doin’ alright?”

John’s hands clench down on the rim of the sink, muscles in his arms twitching and bunching. “You’re not going anywhere. Are you?”

Nick’s skin crawls and he wants to flip the light back on, turn John around and get him the hell out of this creepy little tableau he’s in. The words are the only thing that stop him from breaking it up. Something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but this is… not right.

“Going…? I’m not― no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…” His head droops down even more. “Oh, _fuck.”_ Now John sounds like he’s about to cry and that’s plenty motivation for Nick to move in and put a hand on him, black void or not. John lets Nick pull him away from the mirror and wrap his arms around him. He’s freezing and sucking in fast, sharp breaths.

“Hey, hey, what is it? What’s the matter?” Nick asks as gently as he can and rubbing his palms up and down John’s goosefleshed arms.

“Nothing,” John chokes out. “I just. Just. Jesus.” He sighs, a whistly, grating thing made through his teeth, and sags back against Nick. Whispers, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It's not a physical problem, that much seems pretty obvious now, and Nick wants to get him out of this gloom and look at him. See his face. See his eyes. Get some connection established that's not just Nick holding him backwards in the dark with their bare feet on the cold tile. Get some clothes on him too, he’s shivering.

“Can I turn on the light?”

“No, don’t. Just… you’re not leaving.”

Nick hasn’t got a clue why he’s saying that like that, not really a statement and not really a question either. Or why he’s saying it at all; it’s a non sequitur fit for someone a lot drunker than either of them are or were. Where’d this come from? And what does he mean? _Leaving?_ The house? The city? John?

“I’m not leaving.”

John nods limply. Like even though that was what he expected… wanted to hear, it's still not the answer. “Do I… have to? Should _I_ go? I should go.”

“You―” Nick starts. He’s very confused. And Worried, capitalized. _“No,_ of course not. You can if you really want but I wish you wouldn’t.” _Especially not when you’re… whatever this is._ “I’d like it if you stayed.”

“Lying.”

“John, I'm not. I promise I'm not.”

John coughs and runs a distracted hand over Nick’s forearm where it’s crossing over his thin chest. Grunts something dismissive.

“I’m serious. I was gonna ask you if you wanted to stay before you got up,” Nick says. He watches John’s head bow again, feels the tremble still running through him. “Here, talk to me, kid. What’s going on?”

There’s no answer. Dry click of a throat swallowing.

“C’mon, honey, please? Anything you wanna tell me.”

Then John’s turning around and wrapping awkward arms around Nick’s waist, hands barely touching him like he’s not sure if he’ll be accepted. He is, though. Nick holds him tight, and bends down to press his face into John’s hair, stroking over his shoulder and squeezing the back of his neck. Even with how short he is, it’s rare as hell that John actually seems small. But he does right now, like this. Nick decides it’d seem terribly patronizing if he tried to pick him up to hug him better, even though he kind of wants to.

“Sorry,” he’s saying, face turned outward and mouth hot against Nick’s arm. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. Just had…” He blows out an annoyed breath and doesn’t finish the thought. “No. Nothing. I’m good.”

_Bullshit._

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Nick gently pulls away and examines John’s face. He wipes a thumb over the ridge of his cheek and leans down to kiss it, then John, if he’ll allow it. He does. Manages a shaky smile too.

“Wasn't that bad, was it?” Nick asks wryly, jerking his head back toward the open door.

The miserable look on John’s face falls away as he laughs; quietly at first, then really hard, thankfully tapering off before it hits hysterical quality. “No.”

“Alright,” Nick says, smiling with him.

John sucks in a deep breath and tries to straighten his shoulders out again, stand up taller. It sorta works. He still won’t look up though. “I don’t wanna talk about… this. But I’m okay.”

Still sounds like bullshit, but Nick is not going to needle him about this, not now, not so close to it. He never wants to see John fall into something like that again and the longer he keeps that ice-water chill out of his voice the better. “Okay, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Nick says instead. “C’mon, wanna go to bed? Just sleep.”

“Yeah.”

They lay down and fold themselves under the layers of blankets, knees interlocked and Nick rubbing over John’s shoulders and down his back until he stops shivering. And then some more just because.

“I’m here,” Nick murmurs at some point during. John makes a noise like he’s annoyed, but it gets him to lose even more of the stiff posture.

When John’s heartbeat falls all the way back to baseline and he looks like he’s about back to normal rather than on the verge of screaming, Nick shuffles closer and presses a small kiss to his forehead. “Last thing I ask, promise,” he says. “Did I do something wrong? Go overboard on something?”

John sighs and shakes his head. “No. Not even close.”

That should be relieving, maybe. It is, in that selfish way of ‘good, it wasn't my fault’ but also not, in the way of ‘the cause is some unknown and the witness is being uncooperative, so now what’. It’s not, though, none of it is good. Something’s seriously bothering the kid and Nick doesn’t know what to _do,_ damnit.

And Nick doesn't know what to say either. He knows what he's thinking, though, absolutely. _I didn't think any of this actually_ mattered _to you,_ and _I know I’m not anywhere close to your first so why this?_ More guesses and conjecture, all just as mean and uncharitable. And those aren't things you _say,_ not if you don't want to seriously hurt someone.

John rolls over and snugs his back up against Nick’s front, putting a close to any more potential discussion. Not great.

Nick lays there in silent confusion, an arm wrapped loosely around a body that feels like it wants the embrace but hates itself for the wanting. He lays there with John's hair tickling his neck and chin and desperately hopes for answers. Maybe not now, but sometime soon would be nice. His conversation with Charlie spools back in bits and pieces and he closes his eyes. _‘I don’t want him to get hurt.’_ He thinks of that and echoes it, frowning into the dark. _I don’t want to hurt him._ Didn’t _want to._

Nick’s on his own journey to being asleep, breaths lengthening and body heavy when John speaks again. It’s the quietest whisper, like he’s hoping Nick’s already passed out and won’t hear it.

“It’s never...” He takes a breath. Stays silent for so long Nick thinks he won’t finish. “...been that way.”

Nick opens an eye, only catching a soft outline of John’s head and the rise of his shoulders. No details, just shadow and he has no idea what that meant. “What way was it?” he asks, just as soft.

John’s breath catches like he’s about to say something, but he just shakes his head and clenches his hand harder into the sheets by his face. A minute goes by.

“Good. It was good.”

Then silence again. Just the sound of breathing and the pale scratch of Nick’s thumbnail rubbing the quilt over John’s arm.

He makes “good” sound like such a bad thing.

“I’m sorry,” Nick says.

He stays awake for a very long time.

So does John.

 

_February 6, 2281 9:10 AM_

 

When Nick wakes, his arm is curled over nothing.

On his desk downstairs there’s a notebook open and his jar of pencils looks like it’s been shifted but the page is blank.

Nick rubs his hand across his mouth and stares at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goin’ on hiatus again and it might be a long one. I gotta get the next case here organized and scrounge up the willpower to finish the last chapter of You Filthy Ghoul, it’s been sitting there like 4/5ths done for nearly a _full year._ Disgusting! Plus the ever-present life stuff.
> 
> And have I mentioned how odd it is to write porn and especially penetrative sex when your POV character doesn’t say the word ‘fuck’? *thinky face* At least John has enough fucks in him to power several small townships.


End file.
